


Unfinished Sketches

by sospes



Series: Oils on Canvas [2]
Category: Bridgerton (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Aftercare, Angst, Artsy Nonsense, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Bittersweet, Bridgerton Family Feels, Crack, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Drinking, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Ficlets, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Heartbreak, Hurt/Comfort, Infidelity, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Marriage, Minor Character Death, Missing Scenes, Multi, Nightmares, POV Outsider, Period-Typical Homophobia, Polyamory, Queer Bridgerton Solidarity, Threesome - F/M/M, Trauma, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:40:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 27,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29310468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sospes/pseuds/sospes
Summary: Sketches from the world ofOils on Canvas.Featuring: smut, love, fluff, crack, quite a lot of angst, coitus interruptus, Mrs Baa-Baa, more smut, Lucy getting everything she deserves,Violetgetting everything she deserves, missing scenes, Bridgerton family feels, more smut, and a happily ever after – queer Regency style.
Relationships: Anthony Bridgerton & Henry Granville, Anthony Bridgerton/Kate Sharma, Benedict Bridgerton & Lucy Granville, Benedict Bridgerton & Violet Bridgerton, Benedict Bridgerton/Henry Granville, Benedict Bridgerton/Henry Granville/Lucy Granville, Colin Bridgerton & Henry Granville, Colin Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington, Edmund Bridgerton/Violet Bridgerton, Henry Granville & Lucy Granville, Henry Granville/Lord Wetherby, Past Anthony Bridgerton/Siena Rosso, Violet Bridgerton/Original Female Character
Series: Oils on Canvas [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2152809
Comments: 629
Kudos: 339





	1. At Repose

**Author's Note:**

> Despite the title, these little ficlets are all complete in and of themselves! They range between 500 and 2500 words, and I'll be posting them daily until I run out - I currently have 13 ready to go, and I've got a list still to be written. Feel free to drop prompts for things you'd like to see: I can't guarantee I'll write them, but 99% of them will be added to the list.
> 
> Tags and warnings, if necessary, will be updated with each new 'chapter'. Not every chapter will be an E rating, but there will be a couple of sketches that will definitely earn that rating...! Each chapter will be marked with an individual rating in its summary, so you can always skip straight to the smut if you're so inclined 😝
> 
> 1\. " **At Repose** ": Lucy watches her two foolish boys.  
> 2\. " **A Family Portrait** ": Henry officially becomes a part of the Bridgerton family.  
> 3\. " **The Use of Perspective** ": A fleeting glance at a society ball.  
> 4\. " **A Pastoral Scene** ": Henry meets Mrs Baa-Baa.  
> 5\. " **Lacrimosa** ": Violet comforts her heartbroken son.  
> 6\. " **Chiaroscuro** ": Penelope sees something she was not meant to see.  
> 7\. " **Clash and Contrast, Part 1** ": Henry has a conversation with Anthony in the wake of Benedict’s disappearance.  
> 8\. " **Triptych** ": On occasion, Lucy likes to join her husband and his lover in bed.  
> 9\. " **Clash and Contrast, Part 2** ": Henry is interrogated by Eloise after Benedict has been found.  
> 10\. " **Counterpoint** ": Anthony cannot help but be jealous, sometimes.  
> 11\. " **Blank Canvas** ": Hugh finds Henry’s sketchbook.  
> 12\. " **Anon** ": Colin reads disturbing news in the morning papers, Benedict panics, and Anthony has to hold things together.  
> 13\. " **Life Drawing** ": Henry draws Benedict.  
> 14\. " **Memento Mori** ": Violet reconnects with an old friend.  
> 15\. " **Scarlet, Vermillion, Crimson** ": Violence leaves its mark on Benedict.  
> 16\. " **Mixed Media, Part 1** ": Benedict meets a strange woman at a party at the studio.  
> 17\. " **Mixed Media, Part 2** ": Lucy realises something isn’t right.  
> 18\. " **Mixed Media, Part 3** ": Henry picks up the pieces.  
> 19\. " **The Sublime** ": Colin has some questions for Benedict.  
> 20\. " **On First Viewing** ": How the Bridgertons discover Benedict’s relationship with Henry.  
> 21\. " **Hymeneal** ": Benedict and Henry discuss marriage.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucy watches her two foolish boys. [T]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set directly after the end of _Oils on Canvas_ , because you can never have enough Lucy Granville.

It’s late when Lucy gets home, her feet hurting from the pinch of her new shoes and her cheeks flushed from the cold of the snow. She ducks out of the carriage and hurries through the front door, already held open for her by Alasdair, and flashes him a brief smile of thanks. “Is Henry still up?” she asks, stripping off her gloves. “Estelle had some _very_ interesting news to share about our old friend Lord Bosworth.” 

Alasdair takes her coat, drapes it carefully over his arm. “I am afraid Sir Henry retired to his bedroom some time ago,” he says, an oddly wry expression twisting his lips. “He did not leave specific instructions, but I imagine that he will not want to be disturbed.”

Lucy frowns, all of a sudden concerned. “Did Benedict Bridgerton not dine with him tonight?” she asks, trying not to contemplate what mess those two have got themselves into _this_ time. “I half imagined that he might still be here.” 

Alasdair smirks. “You would be quite correct in that assumption,” he says with a waggle of his eyebrow. 

Realisation dawns, and Lucy grins. “ _Oh_ ,” she says, delighted. “Well, that is rather excellent.” 

“William is on the warpath,” Alasdair says, amused. “He was halfway through his specialty veal when little Peter turned up in the kitchen, told him that Sir Henry and his guest would _not_ in fact be dining tonight after all. The whole dish went in the bin in a fit of pique.”

Lucy laughs. “They skipped William’s dinner to go to bed together,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Of _course_ they did.”

“If I may be so bold as to offer an opinion,” Alasdair says, his smirk fading into a fond smile, “I would say that Sir Henry perhaps deserves something good, after everything that has happened.” 

Lucy squeezes his arm. “I would counter that,” she says conspiratorially, “by saying that it is his own damn fault for refusing to take my advice in the first place.”

Alasdair laughs, and bows. “Of course, Mrs Granville,” he says. “Quite right.”

Lucy takes her leave and pads upstairs, her skirts gathered before her, tired and happy and feeling more than a little mischievous. She eschews her own bedroom, tiptoes to the door of Henry’s, carefully turns the handle and pushes the door open a crack. She half expects to catch her husband and his lover in a very compromising position indeed, much as Henry did all those months ago when he walked in on her in bed with Benedict in the studio, but instead the room is still and quiet, lit only by the soft glow of the dying fire. They’re asleep, she sees, twined together under the bedsheets, Benedict wrapped around her husband, his face hidden in the nape of Henry’s neck, his arm secure across his chest. As usual, Henry is snoring softly, his forehead unlined, his hair rumpled, his sleeping face utterly at peace. 

Lucy presses her hand to her heart, unable to stop herself smiling. “Oh, _Henry_ ,” she whispers to herself, beaming. 

Henry doesn’t stir, and neither does Benedict. They sleep on, lost in each other. 

Lucy closes the door as silently as she can, her heart overflowing with affection, with love, with _relief_ that her two foolish boys have finally managed to work each other out, and goes to bed.


	2. A Family Portrait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry officially becomes a part of the Bridgerton family. [T]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Assuming that Hyacinth is 10/11 at the time of Season 1, this is set two years or so after the end of _Oils on Canvas_.

It’s Hyacinth’s thirteenth birthday in a fortnight’s time, and she is holding forth across the picnic blankets to her gathered family about the planned festivities. “Anthony says that we shall have a grand dinner at Aubrey Hall,” she says, her cheeks flushed with the summer heat, her hands pressed together with glee. “There will be grouse and partridge and lamb, and platters of cakes, and cordials flavoured with elderflower and rose, and there will be flowers all over the house. It will be positively _perfect_.”

“It won’t be,” Anthony says under his breath, lounging back in the vividly green grass, his cravat loosened and his hair wild across his forehead. Henry isn’t sure he’s ever seen the viscount quite so relaxed – and that’s _including_ the time that he took a couple of puffs of the odd-smelling cigar that Benedict found in the studio after a party a few months ago. “Something you’ll learn, Granville, is that Hyacinth’s birthdays are never perfect,” he confides, glancing up at Henry as the youngest Bridgerton continues to lecture Benedict, Daphne, and Hastings, who all made the mistake of sitting too close to her. “Something always goes wrong. There aren’t enough _cakes_ , the horses aren’t _happy_ enough, the flowers are too _pink_ …”

Sitting on Henry’s other side with a plate of cheese in one hand, Colin snorts. “The flower thing was odd,” he agrees, careful to keep his voice low. “Even for Hy.”

On the other side of the small marquee, out of Hyacinth’s range, Lucy laughs at something Violet says, then presses her hand to her lip as if to stifle the noise. Henry is always vaguely concerned when his wife laughs like that – and the only thing that’s _more_ ominous, he’s found, is when she’s laughing like that with _Benedict_. That never ends well for him. 

“What about when she cried for the whole afternoon because the ribbons in her hair kept coming undone?” Anthony adds, grinning, and reaches across Henry to steal a piece of cheese from Colin’s plate. 

Colin swats him away. “Get your own, Anthony!” he exclaims, then turns to Henry. “Are all families like this, Granville, or is it just us?” 

Henry smirks, watching as Eloise and Miss Featherington reappear from wherever it was they wandered off to and immediately become ensnared by Hyacinth’s lecture. “Oh, if you think this is bad, you should have seen my sister when she was young,” he says, amused. “Our mother was a very fine harpist, and on her eleventh birthday Lucinda insisted that she play the same tune over and over again, all day, and whenever she stopped, she would _wail_. The only thing, in fact, that would placate her was if our father carried her on his shoulders and let her tap a tuning fork against every chandelier in the house.” He grins. “She’s a very fine amateur musician now, and she still insists that that birthday was a turning point in her musical development.” 

“There you go, Anthony,” Colin says, gesturing at his brother with a piece of cheese and then eating it. “At least you don’t have to let Hy attack the furnishings.” 

“Small mercies,” Anthony drawls, shading his eyes with his hand. 

“We shall have Miss Penelope as a guest!” Hyacinth declares brightly. “Because she is wonderfully fun and she makes Colin smile.” Colin goes bright red and busies himself with his cheese, and on the other side of the marquee, Miss Featherington drops a teacup and spills tea across the grass. Henry can’t help but laugh, and Benedict glances up at him, catches his gaze. They share a look across the tumult of the Bridgerton clan, warm and gentle and loving, and then Hyacinth chirps, “And Uncle Henry and Aunt Lucy will come, of course! Uncle Henry will sit next to Benedict and they can talk about painting, and Aunt Lucy will sit next to _me_.” 

Henry sees Benedict flush pink to his ears. “Hyacinth,” he starts sternly, “you can’t just _assume_ —”

“We would love to come,” Lucy interrupts, her eyes dancing. “If there is space for us at your table, that is, Lord Bridgerton?”

Anthony gestures broadly. “There is always room at Aubrey Hall for such close friends of Benedict’s,” he says, and Benedict glares daggers at him. 

“See?” Hyacinth says proudly. “It’s _my_ birthday, Benedict. Don’t be difficult.” 

Colin snorts as his sister continues to monologue over Benedict’s mock-outrage. “ _Uncle Henry_ ,” he murmurs, shaking his head and selecting his next mouthful of cheese. “If only she knew.” 

There’s a warmth spreading throughout Henry’s chest, sinking deep into his heart. Lucy has no interest in children and his own lifestyle does not exactly lend itself to procreation, but there is something special about a child’s simple acceptance, the straightforward, unprepossessing claim that is asserted in _Uncle Henry_. 

Anthony is grinning. “It’s your age, isn’t it, Granville?” he whispers, teasing, and Colin barks a laugh. “The grey hairs. You’re an old man in her eyes.” 

Henry is tempted to hint at even _half_ the things this old man has done and will do to their brother, but he’s fairly sure that even the Bridgerton family’s remarkable open-mindedness only stretches so far. He takes a different approach instead. “Perhaps,” he muses, watching as his Benedict scrambles to his feet with a grin, sweeps Hyacinth up in his arms and runs with her towards the lake, her delighted screams resounding across the park. “Or perhaps it is simply because she lacks a good male role model at home, and so has been forced to look outside her family for inspiration.”

Colin chokes on a mouthful of cheese, and Anthony splutters, outraged and laughing. 

“It is difficult to say,” Henry deadpans, not looking at either of them, and eats a piece of cheese off Colin’s plate.


	3. The Use of Perspective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fleeting glance at a society ball. [M]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set maybe three or so years after the end of _Oils on Canvas_.

The warmth of the summer night is lit by the dancing flames of hundreds of candles, placed carefully around the gardens of the Somerset estate and tended to by a small army of surreptitious servants with tapers and wick-trimmers. It’s something of a gimmick, Benedict thinks, which isn’t surprising given Somerset’s established taste level – but it does lend the ball a certain air of magic, of mystery. Shadows dance across the faces of the guests, shining in their eyes, catching in the jewels at their throats and the cufflinks at their wrists. People look different in this light, darker, stranger, and Benedict finds himself itching for his sketchbook, wanting to try to capture something of that undefinable otherness. 

He hears the bray of Somerset’s laughter nearby, and with a grimace, he slips away. 

Benedict wanders through the ball, watching the play of the light and the dance of the candles, sipping slowly from the glass of champagne that he’s been nursing since he arrived. He lost Anthony and Colin to the dancefloor almost immediately, Colin happily dancing and flirting his way through half the young women in attendance, Anthony, of course, with eyes for no one but his wife – and it’s not that Benedict resents his brothers, no, of course not, that wouldn’t be fair, but it brings his own life into such painfully sharp relief to see them so outwardly happy. 

It has been long enough now that he sometimes thinks he should be used to the dull ache that settles in his chest. Other days, he hopes that it never stops hurting. 

The reception room of Somerset’s gaudily-decorated manor is brighter and somehow blander than the gardens, drenched in their fairylight, but there is more by way of alcohol in here so it isn’t all bad. Benedict finishes off his glass of champagne, swaps it for a second, and scans the room absently, looking for faces he recognises. He spots Colin in one corner, deep in conversation with a young gentleman that Benedict thinks he vaguely recognises from long nights at the club, but Benedict has no desire to get himself tangled in dull reminisces so he stays away. Anthony is nowhere to be seen, but Somerset seems to have taken to inviting the brightest and best of the London art scene to his balls so there are a number of other faces that Benedict knows. 

He introduces himself to a handsome middle-aged woman who he has seen at a number of parties at the studio before—she introduces herself as the marchioness of Richmond, which is something of a surprise—and before long they’re discussing mutual acquaintances and the challenges of painting with oils. Two more glasses of champagne later, they’ve progressed onto straightforwardly gossiping about other members of the _ton_ —her husband, Benedict’s brother—and outright disparaging Somerset’s artistic pretensions. 

“Really, you should have _seen_ it,” Benedict half-whispers, much to Richmond’s delight. “The poor woman’s _expression_ – my God, I know that modelling can be unpleasant and uncomfortable at times, but the fact that he managed to preserve such disgust in _pencils_ …” He trails off, shakes his head. 

Richmond giggles. “Well, imagine it,” she murmurs, leaning closer. “Our gracious host asks you to model for him, Bridgerton, and as you are sitting down at your ease, he says, ‘Without your clothes, if you please.’ – and he is _licking his lips_ as he does so.” 

Benedict shudders dramatically. “My lady, you have scarred me for life,” he whispers back, and touches his glass to hers. 

The marchioness is swept away by her husband with an apology and a promise that their conversation will be resumed the next time they meet, and Benedict settles back against the wall of Somerset’s ostentatious ballroom, sipping slowly at his champagne. He watches Richmond and her marquis for a moment, the grace of their dance, the fluidity of their movements, and then he finds himself searching once more, scanning the faces, looking for something, for some _one_. 

Well, he knows who he’s looking for. 

Henry is on the far side of the ballroom, engaged in conversation with Somerset himself, his face a picture of serious concentration. He’s part of a loose circle of half a dozen or so, all of them apparently hanging on Somerset’s every word, but Benedict can tell even from this distance that Henry is only there out of politeness’ sake. His stance is bored, his lips are twisted, and his gaze is distracted, darting here and there from the painted ceiling to the expensive-yet-ill-chosen artworks on the walls to his fellow guests. 

To _Benedict_. 

Benedict catches Henry’s attention from across the ballroom, lounging back against the far wall, and as Henry nods politely at whatever witticism Somerset comes out with, Benedict lets all his longing, all his yearning, all his want pour into his gaze. He cannot help but think of how he woke this morning, wrapped in Henry’s arms, naked and already hard, how they kissed and rocked against each other, lazy and needy all at once, how he laid Henry out across the sheets and sank into him, fucked him slow and long, hitting that sweet spot inside him on every thrust, how Henry was _incoherent_ with lust by the time he came, his fingers dug deep into Benedict’s back, his throat hoarse, his voice rasping. 

Benedict shudders, caught in the grip of his own memories, and pointedly doesn’t drop his lover’s gaze. 

Across the ballroom, trapped in Somerset’s circle of toadies, Benedict sees Henry straighten, cough, and determinedly look away. 

Benedict grins to himself, downs his champagne, and goes to find an appropriate place to surreptitiously adjust his trousers.


	4. A Pastoral Scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry meets Mrs Baa-Baa. [T]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crappy week, shoddy covid precautions at work, got shouted at in the comments of a fic from another fandom, so irritated by all the _stop-whining-and-accept-that-Benedict-won't-be-canonically-bi_ shit in the tumblr tags that I deleted the tumblr app off my phone. (Like, _we know_.)
> 
> ANYWAY.
> 
> Have some silly fluff for your Saturday morning, set maybe four years after the end of _Oils on Canvas_.

“Benedict.” 

Benedict stretches out against the sheets of the bed in his bachelor’s apartment, half-asleep, naked and languorous and really quite spectacularly well-fucked. “Hmm?” 

Henry’s hand rests on his bare thigh, warm and grounding. “Why is there a _sheep_ watching us have sex?” he asks, amusement warring with sheer confusion in his voice. 

Benedict blinks, frowns. “A sheep?” 

The bed shifts with Henry’s movement, and then something small and fluffy is dropped onto Benedict’s bare chest. “A sheep,” Henry says with a curl of amusement. “A _toy_ sheep, admittedly, but a sheep nonetheless. It was sitting on the fireplace, half-hidden behind the clock.” 

“Ah,” Benedict says, grinning. “Henry, my love, meet Mrs Baa-Baa.” He picks the sheep up, dances her across the bedsheets and up Henry’s chest, shoves her into his face. “She is adorable, is she not?” 

Henry takes the sheep from his hand, studies it with a critical eye. “Her body is very true to life,” he admits, “but her _face_ , Benedict – she looks so _simple_.” He smirks. “It is as if she has never read a book in her _life!_ ” 

Benedict snorts, rolls onto his side and props his head on his hand. “Excuse me, Mr Granville, she has had an _excellent_ education!” he protests, plucking her out of Henry’s hand. “She has been hidden in the shelves of the library at Aubrey Hall, and in the pages of several of my sketchbooks at Grosvenor Square.” He flips her over, shows Henry the smudge of charcoal on her belly that, no matter what Benedict tries, he can never get rid of. “I’m fairly sure that she has spent a good week or so in Eloise’s bookshelf as well, although Eloise has rather taken to joining in with the game so it is difficult to be sure.” 

Henry is just staring at him. “Benedict, _what_ are you talking about?” 

Benedict frowns. “Have I never explained Mrs Baa-Baa to you?” 

“You have not,” Henry says, with a distinct air of _you utter idiot, how is it that I love you so much?_ It’s one of Benedict’s favourite airs. “I think you had better explain now.” 

“The duke of Hastings gifted the lovely Mrs Baa-Baa to me several years ago,” Benedict says, grinning. “Since then, he and Anthony have _delighted_ in stealing her back from me and hiding her in increasingly strange places. The chandeliers at Aubrey Hall, that was a good one. The saddle of my horse – that was _very_ impressive, because I saddled her myself and still didn’t notice!” He grins down at Mrs Baa-Baa, sets her neatly on the bed beside him. “I had Anthony and Hastings back here last week, after we’d all had too much to drink at the club and neither of them wanted to incur the wrath of their wives. We came back to the flat, drank a little more, and then Hastings slept on the sofa and Anthony and I shared the bed.” He shakes his head, irritated. “One of them must have been concealing her all that time – those _bastards!_ ” 

Henry is just _staring_ at him. 

Somewhat self-consciously, Benedict takes Mrs Baa-Baa and toys with her awkwardly. “And then when I find her,” he says, “I hide her somewhere in their homes. I managed to get her into Hastings’ private wardrobe at Clyvedon once! I enlisted Daphne’s help, which he said was cheating but I think is really just efficient use of resources.” He shrugs. “She was my sister before she was his wife, after all.” 

Henry reaches out, takes the sheep from his hand and studies her. “You know,” he says thoughtfully, rubbing a thumb across the glass of one of Mrs Baa-Baa’s eyes, “I do believe that Lucy is taking tea with Lady Bridgerton the day after tomorrow. _Lord_ Bridgerton, however, will not be at home, she has been assured – it’s a ladies-only affair, so I’m told.” 

Benedict lights up. “Oh, _yes!_ ” he hisses. “Would Lucy help? Oh, I bet she could find a _brilliant_ hiding place.” 

Henry nods sagely, studying the sheep. “Benedict.”

“Henry?” 

“This is ridiculous,” Henry says. 

Benedict grins at him. “I know,” he says, pushes up off the bed, captures Henry’s lips in a kiss. “But it _is_ fun.” 

Henry sighs and sets Mrs Baa-Baa gently on the bedside table, alongside a book of poetry that was a gift from Eloise and the tiny sketchbook that he gave to Benedict in a snowy folly all those years ago. “Your family is utterly absurd,” he murmurs, crawling on top of Benedict, pushing him back into the mattress and kissing him, long and slow and languid. “Ridiculous and bizarre and _absurd_.” 

Benedict catches his face between his hands. “ _You_ are my family, Henry,” he whispers. “I may not be able to tell the world like I want to, may not be able to have you on my arm at every ball and every soiree, but you _are_.” He smiles, faint and pausing. “There is nothing that could ever change that.” 

Henry kisses him gently. “In which case,” he says, smiling, “we must make sure that the hiding place Lucy finds for the good Mrs Baa-Baa is _incomparable_.” 

Benedict laughs, and kisses him, and before long the toy sheep and her game are wholly forgotten.


	5. Lacrimosa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Violet comforts her heartbroken son. [G]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's me, we all knew that the happy fluff couldn't last forever...! 
> 
> This is set during Chapter 10 of _Oils on Canvas_ , just after (and overlapping slightly with) Violet and Benedict's conversation after his fever breaks. 
> 
> Happy Valentine's Day! 😝

Benedict’s skin is pale and wan, his hair lank and limp, his sleep-clothes drenched in sweat, but the pain in his eyes is all that Violet can focus on. It breaks her heart to see her son like this, so hurt, so _broken_ , and as his face crumples and he buries himself in her lap, she gathers him to her, runs her fingers through his hair, and gives him all the comfort she can. “It will be alright,” she whispers to him, and feels him shake against her. “I promise you, Benedict, it will be alright.” – and even though she _can’t_ promise that, of course she can’t, she has no power over the future, even though her words are nothing but empty promises, because she is his mother and he is her son, she feels some of the tension go out of his shoulders. 

Violet holds her son as he cries, and she tells him every little lie she can think to tell – that she understands, that she knows, that it will all be alright, that _he_ will be alright, that he will move on and, in time, this pain will be nothing more than a memory. They’re lies that she’s told herself a hundred times, lies that she knows like the back of her hand, and as Benedict sobs in her arms, Violet feels tears gather in her own eyes. She leans down, kisses the crown of his head, and unbidden her Edmund’s face flashes in her memory, his smile, his laugh, the smell of his skin in the warmth and sanctuary of their bed.

Oh, how she misses him. Every morning that she wakes without him, every day that she falls asleep alone. She misses him with all her heart. 

Violet closes her eyes, takes a breath, tamps down her own grief. This is not about her. 

She strokes Benedict’s hair, his shoulders, his back, rocking him gently, and as his sobs subside into hitching breaths and gasps, she starts to sing to him, soft peaceful songs that she sang to all her children as they grew up. Benedict tenses for a moment, and she knows why—he’s a grown man, he doesn’t want lullabies from his mother—but she doesn’t stop, just keeps running her fingers through his hair, gentle and soothing, and he goes lax again, his hands clenching and unclenching in her skirts, the trembling of his shoulders gradually lessening, lessening. 

Violet sings, and strokes his hair, and watches over her son as he falls asleep. 

When his breathing is slow and even, his hands loose, his fingers unclenched, Violet leans forward, kisses his forehead, and carefully eases him off her lap. He’s asleep, deeply so, his forehead unlined and his heartbreak forgotten in the peace of sleep, and she tucks him back under the sheets as much as she can, settling him back against the pillows and smoothing his hair back off his face. She hums as she does so, snatches of songs she only half-remembers, now, and when she’s finished, she sits back in the chair at her son’s bedside, tired and aching and _heartsick_. 

“Oh, Benedict,” she whispers, her hand pressed to her heart. “I am so sorry.” 

Benedict sleeps on, his chest rising and falling, his eyelashes long and heavy against his cheeks. 

Violet closes her eyes, feels tears slip silently down her cheeks. “Edmund,” she whispers. “I am trying, Edmund, but I _miss_ you. It is not—” 

She stops herself, lets out a soft breath, opens her eyes and dashes the tears from her cheeks. Of _course_ it isn’t fair, love and heartbreak, they never are – and she thinks of Anthony and his opera singer, of her Edmund, lost and gone, and then, for some strange reason, of Adele, of the hurt in her eyes, so long ago, when Violet told her she was sorry, so sorry, but that her heart was already given to another. 

Violet pauses, and looks back to Benedict. She knows more of her sons’ nocturnal exploits than they would like her to know, that much is certain, and so she knows _full well_ that Anthony is not the only one who enjoys the company of women perhaps a little too much – but that is not to say, of course, that there are not _other_ avenues to be explored as well. 

Benedict’s expression twists as he dreams, pain fragmenting across his face, and he mutters a few scattered words, most of which Violet doesn’t catch. She hears _please_ and _didn’t_ , then a mumble that might be a name, a mumble that sounds like _Henry_. 

Violet thinks of Edmund, and of Adele, and then of the way that Benedict’s face crumpled and fell when she spoke of love – and she wonders.


	6. Chiaroscuro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Penelope sees something she was not meant to see. [T]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This begins maybe six months or so after the end of _Oils on Canvas_ , but covers the course of a few years.
> 
> There's more than a dash of period-typical homophobia in this, but it's nothing too awful and it turns out okay in the end! There's also spoilers for the identity of Lady Whistledown, but I'm sort of assuming that most people have either watched the entirety of S1 or don't care...!

“Oh damn, I left the fifth volume of _Decline and Fall_ down in the library,” Eloise says with a sigh, and frowns down at the pile of books in her lap. “Pen, would you be an absolute _dear_ …?” 

Penelope sighs and puts down the letter she was reading. “Yes, of course,” she says pointedly. “Anything for you, Eloise.” 

Eloise beams at her. “You are my most beloved friend,” she says, flipping through the pages of the book she already has in her hands. “I think I left it on the table next to the bay window, on top of one of Benedict’s sketchbooks.” 

“I should not do this for you,” Penelope warns, but she’s already getting to her feet, straightening the skirts of her bright pink, floral-patterned dress and stepping carefully around the piles of papers and books and notes that seem to be ever-growing on the floor of Eloise’s bedroom. “You are _spoilt_ , Eloise!”

“And you delight in spoiling me!” Eloise calls after her, beaming brightly.

Penelope sighs and pads down the stairs of the Bridgerton home, smiling at the butler and one of the maids, making her way through the house that is as familiar to her as her own is to the doors of the library. They’re closed which most likely means that one of the Bridgertons is inside, buried in a book, and for a second with a familiar thrill Penelope hopes it might be Colin – but no, because he’s still abroad, he won’t be back for at least another month. 

Not that it matters. Not that _he_ matters. 

Penelope pushes open the door to the library and steps inside, searching for Eloise’s book. Ah, it’s there, perched on top of not a sketchbook but instead a pile of what look like accounting ledgers, and Penelope steps towards it, wondering what exactly Eloise finds so fascinating about all this dry, dull history, written by wrinkly old men who haven’t done an interesting thing in their whole _lives_. 

A soft laugh sounds from a shadowy corner of the library, and Penelope freezes in her tracks. She recognises the voice immediately as Benedict’s – and the cadence of that laugh, oh, it’s _private_ , even intimate, Penelope knows more than enough about what goes on between men and women to know _that_. She immediately turns, starts to tiptoe back out—Eloise can get her _own_ damn book if she wants it that much!—but as she does she catches sight of Benedict, facing away from her, one hand resting against the bookshelves, the other curled at the waist of—

_Oh._

Penelope watches, open-mouthed, as Benedict murmurs something she can’t hear, leans forward, and kisses the man that he has half-pinned against the bookshelves. A _man!_ – and Penelope is so astonished, so flustered, that she cannot move a muscle. She watches, her mind racing, as the other man presses himself against Benedict, his hands gripping his hair, and Benedict makes a soft sound of pleasure, pushes his… _friend_ up against the bookshelves and kisses him once again. Penelope catches a glimpse of the other man’s face—is that Granville, the painter?—and then there are _hands_ and _groans_ and Benedict’s _shirt_ is coming off and, oh no, oh no, she needs to leave. 

Penelope flees the library in silence, closing the door behind her and running back upstairs to Eloise’s bedroom.

Eloise frowns at her empty hands. “Where’s the book?” 

“I couldn’t find it!” Penelope squeaks, and puts the whole thing out of her mind. 

Except she _doesn’t_ , because later that night, when she’s in her room alone, sitting at her desk with a blank sheet of paper laid out in front of her, Lady Whistledown whispering in her ear, all she can think of is Eloise’s brother, _Colin’s_ brother, engaged in an act that is… well, that is _immoral_ and that is _sinful_ and that is _illegal_ , that she never imagined she would stumble across so _brazenly_ in the Bridgerton family home! And for it to be _Benedict_ , oh, Eloise thinks the world of her brother, Penelope knows that, to know of this betrayal, surely it would break her heart – and _Colin_ , no, she cannot even _think_ of Colin. 

Penelope’s pen hovers above the paper, undecided. 

But she _knows_ Benedict. She has known him since she was old enough to run across Grosvenor Square to Eloise’s front door by herself, and she knows that he is kind and generous and funny, sarcastic and biting when he wants to be, knows that he loves his family beyond reason – and that he is not a… a _deviant_. He is not the kind of immoral creature that what she saw suggests, he _cannot_ be.

Penelope sets her pen to one side, folds her hands in her lap, and considers the matter. 

The long and short of it is that she doesn’t know enough about the situation, about what exactly her best friend’s brother is doing, and she needs to figure it out before she can know with any certainty what she ought to do. Lady Whistledown gives her a power that she could never exercise as simply Penelope Featherington, recent events have taught her that much, and she cannot just abuse that power willy nilly. She has a responsibility to those she writes about, and so she has a responsibility to the Bridgertons, to _Benedict_. She needs to be sure. 

She needs to know more.

So Penelope does what she does best, and she watches. 

She watches Benedict with his family, watches him at balls, watches him at tea parties and at garden parties – and, over the course of her observations, she finds herself watching him with Granville, too. It’s subtle, she can admit that. In public they only interact as any two friends might, all very proper, all very inconspicuous, but, although of course Penelope does not have access to their private lives, she can nonetheless see echoes of affection in how they are around each other. The light touch that Benedict presses to Granville’s wrist to catch his attention, the way their fingers curl around each other as Granville hands Benedict a glass of champagne. The way they hold each other’s gazes, the way that she watches them watching each other across the respectable gatherings of the _ton_. No one would notice if they were not already looking, of course, but Penelope _is_ looking, and she sees more than she is meant to.

What she sees, in the end, is that they love each other. There is no other word for it: they look at each other as the duke and duchess of Hastings do, as Lord and Lady Bridgerton do, as, Penelope knows with a pang in her heart, she looks at Colin and as he does not look at her. It is not immoral, it is not deviant, it is not disturbed, no, it is just two souls who cannot be without each other, living in a world that does everything it can to keep them apart. 

Once, when Eloise invites her to Aubrey Hall for a month in the summer, Penelope is walking by herself in the gardens when she hears a pair of familiar voices up ahead. She sees them briefly, Benedict and Granville, half-hidden in a leafy bower, not kissing, not pulling at each other’s clothes as they were that first time in the library in Grosvenor Square. This time, under the warmth of the summer sun, the leaves green in the trees and the grass sweet-smelling underfoot, they are just wrapped in each other, entwined, Benedict’s arms around Granville’s shoulders, Granville’s face buried in Benedict’s throat, taking a moment to just _be_ together. 

In that moment, watching them, unnoticed, Penelope decides that she will keep their secret. More importantly, _Lady Whistledown_ will keep their secret, because there is enough heartache in this world. Penelope is not about to cause any more. 

She turns on silent steps, and leaves them to their love. 

Years later, the day after she takes Colin’s hands and swears herself to him for the rest of their lives, her eyes brimming with tears, so unutterably happy, the day after she marries Colin Bridgerton and her heart is so full of joy she can barely speak, her new husband takes her to one side and sits her down. “Pen,” he says, his voice soft and serious. “Now that we are married, now that you are a Bridgerton in name as well as in spirit, there is something I must tell you.” He pauses, swallows, and she sees in his eyes how nervous he is. “It is a secret,” he says, raising her hands to his lips, kissing her knuckles. “And you must swear to me that you will not breathe a word of this to anyone – not as yourself, and _especially_ not as Lady Whistledown.” 

Penelope cups his cheek, brushes her thumb across his jaw. “Whatever it is, it will not change my love for you,” she says, unable to hold her joy in check. “You can tell me anything, you know that.” 

Colin sighs, squares his shoulders. “It is not about me,” he says softly. “It is about Benedict, Pen.” He hesitates a moment longer. “It is about Benedict – and Henry Granville.” 

Penelope laughs. 

Colin blinks. “Pen?” 

“Oh, I have known that Benedict and his Henry are lovers for _years_ ,” Penelope says serenely, and smiles as her husband’s face contorts through a series of impressively astonished expressions. “They are really quite lovely together, don’t you think?” 

“You _knew?_ ” Colin asks, full of surprise. “Penelope, how did you _know?_ ” 

Penelope smiles, leans forward, kisses him gently. “Because I have _eyes_ , dearest,” she says, and laughs with all the joy in her heart as her husband splutters in amazement.


	7. Clash and Contrast, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry has a conversation with Anthony in the wake of Benedict’s disappearance. [T]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This conversation is set during Chapter 12 of _Oils on Canvas_ while Benedict is having his little spiral of self-destruction. It's alluded to in Chapter 14, and is a big part of the reason I wanted to write these Sketches in the first place: there were two scenes that I wanted to write but that didn't fit in with _Oils on Canvas_ proper because Benedict isn't present for either of them and the whole story is from his POV. This is the first!
> 
> There were also a couple of requests for _Oils on Canvas_ from Henry's POV, especially him finding out about Benedict going missing - I hope you enjoy!

Henry sits in front of the fireplace, a book open in his lap that he hasn’t picked up in half an hour at least, and stares fixedly into the flames. He’s not thinking, per se, no, _thinking_ would involve a significantly higher amount of conscious effort than what he’s doing at the moment. Instead he just sits, and watches the flames, and tries not to pay too much attention to the memories that flutter through his mind’s eye. 

Benedict, naked on the floor of the studio, beautiful and perfect and _horrified_ , staring up at him as if his heart was breaking just the same as Henry’s. Hugh, forceful and stricken, kissing Henry with desperation and desire that wasn’t what he wanted, that wasn’t what he _needed_ – but that he couldn’t say no to. 

There’s a dull ache in his chest that’s been there since Benedict kissed him and said _tonight_ with such stark relief in his voice. 

Henry closes his eyes, takes a breath. It’s for the best, he knows it is, no matter what Lucy says or what invitations she sends. Benedict does not _love_ him, does not burn with feeling for him, does not lie awake at night in his cold, empty bed while he—

A crash sounds through the house, followed by a clamour of voices. 

Henry pauses for a moment, frowning, then puts the book he can’t even remember the title of to one side and stands. He’s halfway across the drawing room already when the door bursts open and _Anthony Bridgerton_ of all people comes storming in, his face like thunder. “Granville,” he snaps by way of greeting. “Where in _God’s name_ is he?” 

Henry doesn’t have the faintest idea what the viscount is talking about, but he somehow suspects that this conversation is one that he’s going to want to have in private. He sees Alasdair hovering in the doorway, a question in his eyes, and dismisses him with a flick of his head. “You seem distressed, my lord, so I hesitate to inform you that I do not know what you mean,” Henry says as the doors are quietly closed, his heart beating oddly fast in his chest. “Where is _who?_ ” 

“Where is my Goddamn brother?” Bridgerton practically _spits_ , stalking so close to Henry that he can feel the heat of his body. 

Henry breathes, slow and steady, and has to make a conscious effort to pull a mask of calm into place. Anger and heartbreak will not help him here. “I have not seen your brother since the night of the Winterton ball,” he says, his voice level. “That was some weeks ago, now. I do not know where he is.” 

“He went to your damn party, Granville,” Bridgerton says, short and soft and dangerous. “At the invitation of your _wife_ , I might add. Do you really expect me to believe that you didn’t see him?” 

Henry tries not to remember the heat of Hugh’s body, the wet pant of his breath, the taste of his kisses. “I spent the night entertaining my guests,” he says, as rigidly calm as he can manage. “As you say, my lord, it was my wife who invited your brother. If he was there that night, I did not see him.” 

Fear flashes in Bridgerton’s eyes. “And no one has seen him since,” he says, quiet and laced with emotion that Henry doesn’t dare name. “Not his family, not his friends – and now not even his—” He breaks off, clearly not knowing what word to use to describe Henry’s relationship with his brother. “Not even _you_ ,” he completes. 

Henry feels disquiet twist his stomach. “Are you saying that Benedict is _missing_?” 

The viscount runs a hand through his hair, his jaw tight, his eyes flashing. “Yes, he is missing,” he says shortly. “He did not return home after stepping out to attend your damn party, Granville, and not a soul knows where he can be found. I am—” He cuts himself off, briefly closes his eyes. “If you can tell me anything about where he is, please, I need to know,” he says, softer. “Putting aside what passed between us at the Winterton estate, Granville, he is my _brother_.” 

“I do not know,” Henry says, his mouth dry, but even as he says the words a horrible possibility is forming in his mind. Lucy told him that she invited Benedict to the studio that night, that she saw him leaving, that he was acting oddly, awkward and uncomfortable, distracted. Henry was busy with Hugh all night, reeled back in to that web of hurt and bitterness, lost in lust and grief and the pleasure that Hugh always knew how to wring from his body. Oh God, what if Benedict _saw?_

But even if he did, why would he care? 

“You do not know,” Bridgerton repeats, nodding, his voice scathing. “You do not fucking _know_ , of course you do not.” He steps closer, his chest heaving. “You will risk Benedict’s reputation and his fucking _life_ by kissing him in the gardens of a society ball,” he hisses, “when there are _hundreds_ of people who could have seen you. You will not think about the consequences of your Goddamned actions, Granville, the _ruin_ you could have brought upon him and his family – but what you _will_ do is stand in front of me without a _hint_ of emotion and tell me that you _do not know_.” 

Henry’s heart is racing. “I do not,” he repeats. “I would tell you where to find him if I knew, Bridgerton, I swear I would. But I do not.” Fear is clawing into his heart, foaming out of his mouth. “I swear I do not.” 

Bridgerton scoffs, wordless and scornful, and turns on his heel and storms out of the drawing room. Or, at least, he _makes_ to storm out of the drawing room but he stops before he reaches the doors, pauses, turns and comes thundering back to Henry. There is fire in his eyes, fire and flame and fury, and when he speaks, it’s in a whisper, a terrified, hurting whisper that sears itself into Henry’s heart. “My brother gave you his _heart_ , Granville,” Anthony Bridgerton hisses, his jaw so tight it looks like it might shatter, and Henry abruptly feels the bottom drop out of his stomach. No. No, that’s not right. “Wholly and utterly,” Bridgerton insists, eyes bright. “And _you_ do not even have the _good grace_ to care that he is missing.” 

Henry is frozen. He vaguely thinks he might be sick.

The viscount waits for a moment, as if for a response, then scoffs and stalks away. He slams the door to the drawing room open and disappears, his footsteps resounding in the halls like the racing, pounding beat of Henry’s heart – because no, _no_ , that isn’t true, it can’t be, Benedict doesn’t _love_ him, no, he just wants the experience, wants the risk, the danger, he’s like Hugh, he just wants to try Henry on for size and then go back to his safe, comfortable, charmed life with no consideration for the tattered, broken heart that he leaves in his wake. 

Abruptly Henry remembers that night in the studio after the Winterton ball, the way that Benedict took his face between his hands and kissed him, the way he smiled and said _I would spend every day with you for the rest of my life_. The light in his eyes, the tenderness in his smile, the tremor in his hands. 

Oh, Henry has been an _utter_ fool.

“Sir Henry?” Alasdair asks, hovering in the open door once more. 

“Fetch my coat and hat,” Henry snaps. “ _Immediately_ , Alasdair. And tell Mrs Granville that I will not be home for dinner tonight.” 

Alasdair knows better than to argue. He bows and disappears to do as he is told. 

Henry will find Benedict, he has to. He will scour the streets of London night and day until he finds him and he puts this _right_ , and as he makes that vow to himself, his hand pressed to his heart, his mind racing, he thinks of the surrender in Benedict’s eyes, the trust in his expression, the openness and the light in his soul. The _love_ , oh God, it was love all along, it was right there and Henry was too blind to see it. 

“Benedict,” he whispers, hope and fear entwined in his voice, dug like rose thorns into his fragile heart.


	8. Triptych

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On occasion, Lucy likes to join her husband and his lover in bed. [E]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternative summary: Benedict is the filling in a Granville sandwich. 
> 
> So I'm just posting these Sketches in the order that I wrote them, nothing more complicated than that, and clearly my brain at this point got sick of _emotions_ and _feelings_ and decided it was time for some smut. (Part 2 of "Clash and Contrast" will be up tomorrow!) 
> 
> This is set three or so years after _Oils on Canvas_ , not that that really matters, because it's just porn.

The studio is empty, now, the detritus of celebration scattered across the floors and hall, waiting to be cleaned up in the morning by the Granville servants who are, by now, quite accustomed to the strangenesses that occur at their employers’ soirees. A bottle of absinthe sits discarded at the foot of an easel, a sheer silk robe lies abandoned across a chaise longue. A few scattered parrot feathers whisper gently across the floor in the breeze from an open window. 

A light flickers in one of the bedrooms upstairs, dancing across the gleam of the paintings hung on the walls, the shine of the gilt frames, the sweat-sheen of the two bodies on the bed, naked and twisted together, mouths and hands and fingers. They’re both a little drunk, tipsy on wine and each other, and they laugh just as much as they moan, full of love and lust and life. 

Lucy pauses in the open doorway, a glass of wine dangling from her hand. “You know,” she drawls, stepping inside, shutting the door behind her, “you _really_ ought to make sure you’ve closed the door before falling into bed together. You’re inviting scandal otherwise, you know.” 

Benedict’s mouth is currently a little occupied, but Henry looks up at her, one hand in his lover’s hair, the other tucked behind his head. “But that might make you think that you weren’t welcome, dearest,” he says, then extends his free hand to her, a gleam in his eye. “Might I be so bold as to assume from your presence that you would be interested in joining us tonight?” 

Lucy sets her wineglass on the floor, sheds her dress, runs her fingertips along the arch of Benedict’s bare back. “Only if that is alright with you, Benedict,” she says, then settles on the bed, kisses her husband’s cheek. “He does seem to be quite enjoying the task at hand,” she confides to him, glancing down at Benedict, his half-closed eyes, the spit-sheen of his lips as he slowly, languorously sucks Henry’s cock. “I would hate to interrupt him.” 

“Oh, he doesn’t mind,” Henry says, his voice low and dark, and loosens his grip on Benedict’s hair. “Isn’t that right, my love?” 

Benedict sits back, looks up at them, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Henry is rather spoiled,” he says, crawling up the bed, kissing Henry briefly and then turning his attention to Lucy, kissing her longer, harder. “And demanding,” he murmurs, kissing her once more then slipping his hand between her legs, spreading them wide. “I think it’s good for him, sometimes, to remember that there are other people in the world besides him.” 

Henry makes an offended noise as Benedict kisses his way down Lucy’s body, buries his mouth between her legs, oh, _yes_. “And here I was, thinking that you loved me, Benedict,” Henry says, half amused, half disapproving. “Instead all you want to do is mock and belittle me.” He shakes his head, slides his hand back into Benedict’s hair. “Well, if it is to be like this, then the _least_ you can do is ensure that you spoil my dearest wife just as much as you spoil me.” 

Lucy bats Henry’s hand aside, replaces it with her own, pulls Benedict’s tongue to _exactly_ where she wants it. “ _Oh_ ,” she moans, grinding down hard against him, “I am _quite_ happy to be spoiled, I have to say. _Ah_ , use your fingers please, Benedict.” 

Benedict does as he’s told, as he always does, as he _loves_ to do, and Henry laughs softly, shifts down the bed. Lucy watches him as he bites kisses into Benedict’s spine, then twists the lid off a small jar and trails slicked fingers down out of her line of sight. Benedict yelps, then _moans_ , and he breaks off, pants for breath against her inner thigh. “ _Henry_ ,” he groans. 

Lucy tuts in disapproval, hauls Benedict’s mouth back to her cunt. “Come now, Benedict,” she says as he resumes his attentions. “Don’t let my husband distract you, you’re better than that.” 

“Quite right,” Henry agrees, and does something with his fingers that makes Benedict _shudder_. “Ignore me. I’m quite unimportant in all this.” 

Benedict whimpers, but he’s as stubborn as his lover is, Lucy knows, and she pushes her head back into the pillows with a moan as he sinks his fingers deeper into her, his tongue laving her sweet spot, _oh_. He works her to orgasm and then keeps going, driving her rapidly to a second peak – and it’s only when Lucy hears Henry grunt, blunt and hoarse, that she looks up and sees that, oh, he’s fucking Benedict as Benedict eats her out, his hands gripping Benedict’s hips so hard his knuckles are white. Her husband meets her gaze, his lip curling, his pupils blown wide, and grins at her. “Is he treating you well, dearest?” he asks, his voice hoarse. “Do you feel appropriately spoilt?” 

At which point Benedict twists his fingers inside her, licks and sucks and, _oh fuck_ , she’s coming again, hard enough that it almost _hurts_. She cries out, spasms almost off the damn bed, and then Henry’s making a series of sharp, sudden gasps, his eyes screwed shut, his body juddering as he comes, too, deep inside his lover – and, _God_ , Lucy isn’t sure she’s ever seen anything quite so erotic. She laughs, releasing her deathgrip on Benedict’s hair, sagging back against the pillows, and watches as Henry crashes forward, reaching beneath Benedict, gripping his cock and taking him in a quick couple of strokes to his own orgasm.

Benedict groans, spills over Henry’s hand, and collapses like a marionette with cut strings, his head pillowed on Lucy’s thigh, Henry still blanketed over his back. 

Lucy smiles, lazy and contented, strokes her fingers through Benedict’s sweaty hair. “Well,” she says once she has regained her voice, licking her lips, pushing her own hair back out of her face. “That was _rather_ enjoyable.” 

Henry pulls out of Benedict with a soft sigh, and comes to rest against the pillows at Lucy’s side. He kisses her cheek, offers her a soft smile as Benedict settles between them, breathing heavily, his skin sweaty and flushed. “Will you stay?” he asks, no judgement in his voice. “You know you are always welcome with us, Lucy.” 

Lucy kisses him gently, cups his cheek and rubs her thumb along his cheekbone. “I know I am,” she says, then leans down, kisses Benedict’s forehead. He looks up at her sleepily, smiling that broad, gentle smile that lights up his whole face, and she kisses him again, on the lips this time, tasting herself with a shiver of pleasure. “However,” she says, looking back to her husband, “you are both sweaty, and sticky, and you snore, Henry, and you, Benedict, you _kick_.” 

Benedict makes an apologetic face, and Henry grins. “That is true.” 

Lucy extricates herself from the bed, retrieves her dress from the floor and shrugs it on. “You really ought to clean yourselves up before you fall asleep,” she says wryly, seeing Benedict’s half-closed eyes and the soft tenderness in Henry’s expression. “You’ll regret it in the morning.” 

Henry hums, smiles up at her. “We will,” he says, his fingers spread wide and flat across Benedict’s stomach. “Goodnight, Lucy.” 

“Goodnight,” Lucy says, smiling, and pads to her own bedroom on bare feet. She dips a cloth in the washbasin, rinses off a little of the sweat, the spit, the slick, then changes into her nightdress and slips beneath the covers. It’s warm in here, the banked fire radiating heat, the blankets thick and the sheets soft, and she’s asleep in moments, contented and happy and very, very satisfied.


	9. Clash and Contrast, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry is interrogated by Eloise after Benedict has been found. [T]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set between Chapters 12 and 13 of _Oils on Canvas_ , after Benedict has been shipped off to Aubrey Hall.

Lucy is waiting for Henry when he gets home in the early evening, her hair uncoiffed and her clothes rumpled. “He’s been found,” is the first thing she says, no greeting, no welcome, nothing but the sheer relief in her words. “By the viscount and the duke, by all accounts. He’s in the Bridgerton house at Grosvenor Square.” 

Henry’s knees _buckle_ , and he has to grab hold of Alasdair’s shoulder to stop himself collapsing. He’s exhausted, he’s spent the last three days terrified, barely sleeping, desperately looking everywhere he could think to _find him_ – and now he’s _safe_. For a moment, Henry’s vision swims and he feels Alasdair holding him up, hears Lucy calling his name, and then the next time his head levels, he’s sitting in an armchair, his coat and gloves gone, Lucy’s hand on his shoulder and the familiar smell of William’s potent restorative broth hanging in the air. 

“Henry?” Lucy asks, heavy with concern. “Can you hear me?” 

Henry levers himself to his feet, knocking into the table that holds the broth and barely catching it before it spills across the carpet. “I must go to Grosvenor Square,” he says. “Immediately.” 

“Henry—”

“I have to see him,” Henry whispers, his heart pounding against his ribs. “I cannot—”

“What you have to do, Henry,” Lucy interrupts firmly, “is sit down, eat something, then wash and change. After that—and _only_ after that!—will I have Paul ready the carriage to take you to Grosvenor Square.” She pushes him back down into the armchair, and the fact that he finds himself going quite so readily does seem to indicate that she’s right. “You are pale as a ghost, Henry,” Lucy says, concern in her voice. “I am quite sure that Benedict would not want you to collapse on the steps of his family home.” She picks up the spoon, puts it in his hand. “ _Eat_.” 

Henry learned many years ago that, on some occasions, it is best not to argue with his wife. He eats, and washes, and changes into clothes that aren’t stiff with sweat and dirt, and then Lucy practically pushes him into the carriage and instructs the driver to take him to Grosvenor Square. 

Henry’s heart is beating out of his _chest_. 

The door of the Bridgerton house is opened by a servant, a man whose expression is as blank and carefully neutral as Henry has ever seen. “Can I help you, sir?” he asks. 

“I am here to see Benedict Bridgerton,” Henry says, his voice only calm through sheer force of will. 

“I’m sorry, but Master Benedict is not here,” the servant answers, politely apologetic. “I am afraid that he left for the country this afternoon. He will not—” 

“Who is that?” a female voice asks. 

The servant flashes Henry an apologetic smile and looks back over his shoulder. “A caller for Master Benedict, Miss Eloise.” 

“For Benedict?” the same voice asks, and suddenly there’s a young woman standing in the doorway, her arms crossed against the cold, her dark hair loose around her shoulders and a deep blue fabric flower pinned to her headband. She takes one look at Henry and her eyes go wide. “Sir _Henry_ ,” she says, a surprising amount of venom in her voice, and, oh no, Henry abruptly realises that she _knows_. “Won’t you come in?” 

Henry hesitates. “I would not want—”

“You are not intruding at all,” she interrupts, taking him firmly by the arm and practically _marching_ him into the house. “In fact,” she says, guiding him to a set of tall doors and shoving him inside, “I have been eager to meet you for quite some time, Mr Granville.” She closes the doors with a thud, props her hands on her hips. “I am Eloise, by the way,” she says, almost as an afterthought. “Benedict’s sister. He may have mentioned me.” 

They’re in some kind of study, complete with a desk practically groaning under papers and ledgers, which Henry is going to assume probably doesn’t belong to the young woman in front of him. “Ah, Miss Bridgerton, I’m not sure—”

“You mistake my intentions in inviting you in, Mr Granville,” Miss Bridgerton says, an unexpected steel in her voice. “I simply want to know what on _Earth_ gives you the idea that you are welcome in this house after how you have treated my brother.” She folds her arms, and Henry gets the distinct impression that it’s because she’s restraining herself from flying at him. “Do you _know_ how badly you have hurt him? Do you have any _idea?_ ” 

“I—” Henry tries. 

“Because you have injured him worse than I ever thought he _could_ be injured,” she continues, speaking over him like he’s not even there. “First you break his heart and plunge him into fever and delirium, and then when he is given hope by none other than your _wife_ , you do I know not what to him and he _vanishes!_ ” There is pink blossomed high on her cheeks, outraged and _furious_ , and Henry realises with a flash of sorrow that there are tears in her eyes. “And when Anthony finally found him and brought him home, he was _bruised_ and _bloody_ and I could not even _touch_ him without him crying out in pain!” 

Henry’s stomach twists. “Miss Bridgerton, please know that I did not—”

“And despite everything that you have done, he still loves you,” she says, stark and angry and, oh, a perverse kind of hope flares bright and sharp in Henry’s heart. “Despite how you have rejected him and cast him aside, my foolish, soft-hearted brother still loves you – _you_ , who care not a whit for him! You who dare to knock at the door of our home, bold as brass, who prance in here with your – your soulful eyes and your _politeness_!” She pauses, presumably to catch her breath. “What _are_ you doing here, Sir Henry?” she demands. “Have you come to _gloat_?” 

“I am here,” Henry says, unable to hold back the truth anymore, “because I love your brother, Miss Bridgerton. Because I am _in_ love with your brother.” 

Miss Bridgerton just stares at him for a moment. “No, you’re not.”

“I assure you, I very much am,” Henry answers. 

“No, you are _not_ ,” she repeats, stepping closer. “Don’t be foolish. Of course you’re not.” 

“I am,” Henry says, feeling his voice choking in his throat. “I thought he did not care for me, Miss Bridgerton, that is why I acted as I did.” 

“But he _told_ you!” she exclaims. “He _told_ you he loved you and you said that you did not feel the same way!” 

There is an ache in Henry’s heart that he doesn’t know if he will ever manage to heal. “He told me with his actions but never with his words,” he says heavily. “I was blind to what he was trying to tell me, Miss Bridgerton, and I hate myself for it – but it was not malicious, I _swear_.” 

Abruptly the door swings open, outlining Anthony bloody Bridgerton in the light from the hall, and oh, isn’t that just _wonderful_. “What are you doing in my study, Eloise?” Bridgerton asks sharply, then spots Henry. “And what in God’s name are _you_ doing here, Granville?!” He slams the door behind him, anger crackling in his eyes. “If you think that you are getting anywhere near—”

“Anthony,” his sister interrupts abruptly, grabbing his sleeve to silence him, her forehead pinched, her gaze assessing. “I believe that Benedict has been very, _very_ stupid.” 

The viscount seems thrown by this declaration. “What are you talking about, Eloise?” 

“The first I heard of your brother’s true feelings for me,” Henry says before Miss Bridgerton can say it for him, and he might be risking the wrath of the esteemed Viscount Bridgerton but he has to say this, he _has_ to, he has to make amends, “was when you came to my house three days ago, my lord. He never told me. I thought he did not care for me as I cared for him, I thought… many things. Many _incorrect_ things.” 

Bridgerton stares at him, the scrutiny in his eyes astonishingly similar to his sister’s. “Is this a joke?” he asks, icy calm.

“It is not,” Henry answers. “I swear it is not.” 

“It’s also very like Benedict,” Miss Bridgerton points out. “He never has quite worked out how best to use his words.” 

“ _Eloise_ ,” Bridgerton says sharply.

“What?” she protests. “It’s true!” 

Bridgerton is still watching Henry, his eyes narrowed. “Why are you here, Granville?” 

“I am here to fix the mistakes that I have made,” Henry answers, and, oh, he is baring his soul to these people who are virtually strangers to him but he _has_ to, he has no _choice_. “I acted poorly because I thought that I was saving myself from pain, but in reality all I was doing was hurting us both beyond measure. I must make amends. I _have_ to.” 

Bridgerton’s eyes are hard. “Your actions at the folly?” he asks quietly. 

“Driven by loss and heartache,” Henry answers immediately, jaw tight. “A mistake. I would _never_ take such a risk under normal circumstances, I swear.” 

Miss Bridgerton frowns, looking between them. “What risk?” she asks. “What folly?”

Bridgerton ignores her. “You have caused a lot of damage, Granville,” he says flatly. “Perhaps more than you can mend.” 

“I know,” Henry answers, his heart beating out of his chest. “And if he will allow me to do so, I will devote the rest of my _life_ to helping him heal. It would be my honour, my _privilege_ to love him as he deserves to be loved, my lord.” His lips twist, hurt and hope and grief all at once. “I ask only the chance to speak to him,” he almost whispers. “Please.” 

The viscount’s lips twist. “I do not think that—”

“He can decide for himself,” Miss Bridgerton interrupts, her voice firm, her fingers still wound into her brother’s sleeve. “Write to him, Sir Henry. We will be sending a bundle of letters to him in the next few days. Write a letter, and it will be included.” 

“Eloise…” Bridgerton says, doubt in his voice.

“He deserves to know,” his sister says quietly, looking up at her brother, squeezing his wrist. “He would _want_ to know, Anthony.” 

Bridgerton grits his teeth, staring at Henry, but Henry has faced down more dangerous men than Anthony Bridgerton in his time. He stands tall, thinks of Benedict, of the warmth of his smile and the horror of his heartbreak. “You love him, Granville?” Bridgerton asks finally, voice tight. 

“Wholly and utterly,” Henry answers, standing firm. 

Bridgerton’s eyes flash as he recognises the echo of his own words. His shoulders slump, and he sighs. “Well, perhaps there might be a happy enough ending to this whole mess after all,” he says, and passes his hand over his face. “I cannot guarantee Benedict will want to talk to you, Granville. You did not see him when I found him, it was—” He breaks off, and Henry sees his sister clutch his hand tighter, the two of them hanging together against the fear. 

Miss Bridgerton meets Henry’s gaze, her chin lifted high. “If you hurt him again,” she says, a seriousness in her young voice that Henry dares not question, “then I will see that Anthony _ruins_ you, do you understand?” 

“ _Eloise_ —”

Miss Bridgerton shushes him. “You might love my brother now, Mr Granville,” she says, “but I have _always_ loved him, and I will be _damned_ if I let you injure him again.” She flaps a hand at the viscount, who is just staring at her with a kind of shock in his eyes. “Yes, yes, Anthony, I know, _language_. But there are situations that call for swearing, do you not think?” 

Henry bows, deep and sincere. “If there were ever such a situation, Miss Bridgerton, it is this,” he agrees. 

Bridgerton sighs again. “Just don’t fuck it up again, Granville?” he says, then rounds on his sister. “ _Do not_ tell Mother I said that in front of you.” 

Henry smothers a smile as Miss Bridgerton positively _grins_. “I will do my best,” he says. “You have my word.” He pauses, just for a moment, and then says, “And thank you. Both of you.” Hope is swelling in his heart, warm and bright and almost painful. “I am in your debt.” 

“Well,” Miss Bridgerton says, beaming, “there is at least one way that you can make it up to us, Sir Henry. As my brother so eloquently put it.” She grins, unrepentant. “Don’t fuck it up.” 

“ _Eloise!_ ” 

Henry cannot help but laugh.


	10. Counterpoint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anthony cannot help but be jealous, sometimes. [G]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set during Chapter 16 of _Oils on Canvas_ , during the Hastings winter ball. It's just after (and slightly overlaps with) Anthony, Benedict, and Henry's brief conversation. 
> 
> Also, I love Siena but I'm also already in love with the actress who's playing Anthony's love interest in S2 so, you know, that's a thing. Maybe they should solve their problems Granville-style... 😝

“Please excuse me,” Anthony says, grinning, and pats Benedict’s arm. “I see that mother is summoning me.” He smirks. “Try not to grievously offend anyone else, brother? Especially not at our sister’s ball – she would be _most_ displeased.” 

Benedict gives him a withering look as Granville tries unsuccessfully to hide a smile. “Go away, Anthony,” his brother says pointedly. 

Anthony goes, sipping from his champagne. 

His mother is around, of course, but she seems preoccupied with the duchess of Wessex and that is a conversation that Anthony has _no_ desire to partake in. He joins a conversation with a couple of his business associates instead, but their talk of farming techniques and shipping manifestoes is nowhere near enough to keep his attention – and he finds his gaze wandering back to his brother and his… His what? His lover? His partner? His… _husband?_

Well, no, certainly not that last one, it’s _far_ too soon for that kind of talk, but Anthony sees the way Benedict looks at Granville, the warmth in his eyes, the smile he can’t suppress, the _longing_. He loves him, that’s unmistakeable. He _loves_ him. 

The musicians strike a deep chord and hold it, violin and cello and tenor voice, rich and melancholy, and Anthony feels his breath catch. For a second, he can’t even _think_ because he’s watching his brother, yes, watching his brother talk and smile and fucking _flirt_ , but that’s not where his heart is, no, his heart is gone, lost, broken on the steps of Siena’s—

_No._

Anthony’s hand spasms so tight around the stem of his champagne flute that he’s a little surprised it doesn’t break. 

He watches, his jaw diamond-hard, as Benedict grins at Granville, that particular distinctive grin that lights up the entirety of his brother’s face, eyes crinkling, lips beaming, happiness and warmth radiating from every line of his expression. Granville isn’t quite so obvious with his affection, his smile softer, smaller, but Anthony can feel the depth of his emotion from halfway across Hastings’ ballroom. They are _utterly_ in love with each other – and it is a love that they can never flaunt, that they can never parade before the _ton_ , that they will have to hide and protect and defend every day of their lives, unceasing, unending. 

But at least they can fucking _have_ it. 

Anthony closes his eyes for a brief second, listens to the crow of nearby laughter, the now-upbeat swing of the music, the chime of glasses and the tap-tap of footsteps, and when he opens his eyes again, he is calmer. Benedict and Granville have gone their separate ways—good, that’s sensible, very sensible—and Anthony turns his attention back to his associates, focuses back in on a discussion of the merits of various methods of tillage. “Ah, yes,” he says, gesturing with his champagne, “but have you read Leadborough’s treatise on this point? He’s pointlessly wordy, of course, but he does have some interesting things to say about loam versus peat.” 

Love? No, Anthony will protect his brother, that goes without saying, and, if it comes to it, he will protect his brother’s lover as much as he can – but for his part, love is an irrelevance. 

He has other things to worry about.


	11. Blank Canvas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hugh finds Henry’s sketchbook. [M]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set sort of in the background of Chapter 1 of _Oils on Canvas_. It's the morning of the day that Benedict attends the first party at Henry's house, the party that ends with him hooking up with Lucy and then, the next morning, finding Henry drunk and grieving. 
> 
> Also, you may have noticed that I've put a chapter count on this thing - 21, so 10 more after "Blank Canvas". I can feel myself running out of steam, and while I still love these boys and this 'verse, I don't want to push it to the extent that I don't enjoy it anymore! There may be the odd one or two being added to that number, but at least 21 is guaranteed. (And there's some good ones in there, I promise!)

Dawn is breaking through the half-curtained windows, casting the warm golden light of summer across the foot of Henry’s bed. Birds chirp softly outside, a breeze rustles the leaves of the trees that stand outside the studio, and it is already cloyingly warm, the bedsheets heavy and leaden in the late summer heat. Henry is still fast asleep, his chest rising and falling in time with his soft snores, and his right hand twitches occasionally where it lies in a puddle of sheets, as if reaching for a missing paintbrush or stick of charcoal. 

Hugh watches him, dry-eyed and exhausted. He hasn’t slept all night, not even with alcohol swimming in his head and the lethargy of a good orgasm settled into his bones – and he’s _tried_ , God has he tried, lain there tossing and turning all night, eyes closed, pretending to sleep and hoping that pretense will eventually turn into reality, but nothing has worked. 

He knows why, of course. He hasn’t had a good night’s sleep since he agreed a marriage contract with the man who will very soon be his father-in-law, and there’s a part of him that’s _glad_ for it, that _delights_ in it. It’s the part of him that hates himself for what he is doing, for the betrayal he is carrying out with the slow, exact precision of a surgeon – but that is not something he can afford to listen to. He has a duty. He has a duty to his family, to his sisters, to his mother. 

Henry sleeps on unawares, the morning sunlight gilding the soft curls of his hair. 

Hugh meant to tell him last night, he really did. He came here with his fists clenched and his jaw tight, ready for whatever arguments or protests Henry might make, but then Henry opened the door and _smiled_ , broad and affectionate, and all the courage fled from Hugh’s heart. It will break him, Hugh knows. It will break Henry in two to be so callously thrown aside and if there were any other way, he would not, he _could_ not – but he has tarnished his reputation enough already by the company he keeps and the company he _doesn’t_ keep. He is no golden boy, no jewel of the _ton_ , and there is only so far a title and an estate in desperate need of repair will take him. 

Miss Cowper comes with a sizeable dowry and a politically astute family, a family who have excellent business contacts and who are happy to overlook some of the more… _outlandish_ rumours about Hugh’s youthful exploits at Cambridge. She is under no illusions that this is a love match, and now all that remains is for Hugh to propose, for her to accept, for them to confirm the path of the rest of their lives. 

To propose _this morning_. 

Hugh can’t look at Henry anymore. 

He slips quietly out of bed, careful not to disturb Henry, and quickly retrieves his clothes from where they lie tangled with Henry’s on the floor. He will have to go home before his appointed rendezvous with Miss Cowper, change and eat something and wash the smell of his lover off his skin – and for a moment he stands there frozen in Henry’s bedroom, half-dressed, Henry’s shirt in his hands, picked up in place of his own. The fabric is soft against his skin, flicked with rich blue paint in one corner, and Hugh has to force himself not to press it to his face, to inhale the last of Henry’s scent. That won’t help _at all_ , so he tosses the shirt to the floor with a soft sound of disgust, self-hatred and guilt warring in his heart. 

The shirt lands on top of Henry’s discarded trousers, creased and paint-flecked, and dislodges something from the pocket. 

It’s a… sketchbook? 

Hugh bends down and picks it up, frowning, because Henry has dozens of sketchbooks, of course he does, he’s an artist, but Hugh doesn’t think he’s ever seen this one before. It’s small, leatherbound and gilt-edged, tiny enough that it’s barely bigger than Hugh’s palm – and why was it in Henry’s pocket? 

Curiosity overcomes him, and Hugh opens the sketchbook. 

Another man’s face stares back at him from the first page, arrogant and caustic, captured in the fine, sure strokes of Henry’s pencil. He seems familiar, this man, and Hugh frowns, turns the page, turns the next. The same face stares back at him from every page, not just arrogant, no, smiling on the second, grimacing on the third, and then on the fourth a full-length sketch, the lines rougher, the dark-haired, smiling-eyed man standing before an easel, a glass in one hand and a charcoal in the other. 

“Bridgerton,” Hugh whispers in abrupt recognition. 

It’s the second Bridgerton son, the would-be artist, the one who has been spending time at the studio and exchanging letters with Henry all summer. Benedict, that’s his name. 

Why does Henry have a book full of sketches of Benedict Bridgerton? 

A cold hand closes around Hugh’s heart. 

He looks back to the bed, to Henry, fast asleep in the golden glow of the morning, and feels a flash of anger so piercingly sharp that it makes his hands shake. How _dare_ Henry make a fool out of him like this! Has he been fucking Bridgerton this whole time? _Betraying_ Hugh, laughing at him behind his back, cuckolding him, making a mockery of everything they _shared_ —

The sketchbook drops from Hugh’s shaking hands and clatters to the floor. 

In bed, Henry stirs, his eyes fluttering open. “Hugh?” he asks, his voice morning-rough. He smiles, open and warm and overflowing with affection, then squints at Hugh, frowns. “Are you leaving?” 

There is so much love in Henry’s face, unceasing and straightforward. Whatever that sketchbook is, it cannot be what it seems to be, no, Henry would not _do_ that to him. 

But, then again, is it not exactly what _Hugh_ is doing to _Henry_? 

Hugh pastes on a smile that he doesn’t feel. “I have an early meeting,” he says, tugging on his shirt, buttoning it with shaky fingers. “I did not mean to wake you.” 

Henry hums, pushes the bedsheets lazily off himself as he stretches, exposing the languid line of his chest, the firm muscle of his thighs, the curls of wiry hair surrounding his half-hard cock. “Are you sure you cannot stay for another five minutes?” Henry asks, sleepy and grinning. “I can still feel your seed inside me from last night.” 

“I must go,” Hugh says, a little strangled. “Sorry, Henry, I do not have time.” 

Henry shrugs, still half-asleep, and drags the sheet back over himself. “Suit yourself,” he says. “I will see you tonight at the party, hmm?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, already dozing, and within a few moments he’s asleep once more, his breathing slow and steady, his skin gleaming in the warmth of the morning. 

Hugh closes his eyes for a moment, his hand balled in a fist at his side, and fights the urge to scream. Tears prick at the back of his eyes but he blinks them away, gazing fiercely at the golden glow of Henry’s skin, the peace in his expression, because he _will not cry_. This has to happen. This has to be done, _he_ has to do it, and if what Henry really wants is to fuck Benedict Bridgerton, well, then maybe that’s for the best. 

Hugh finishes dressing as quickly as he can, surreptitiously tucking the tiny sketchbook back into the pocket of Henry’s trousers. He dips a cloth in the washbasin in the corner, splashes the lukewarm water across his face, and then he should just _go_ , he knows he should, Henry is asleep and he should just leave, just go, turn away and never look back, move on, _move on_. 

Instead, Hugh pads quietly across to the bed and—oh, you fucking _coward!_ —runs his hand softly through Henry’s hair. Henry’s right on the edge of sleeping and waking and he turns towards Hugh like a flower seeking the sun, trusting and warm, and before Hugh can stop himself he leans forward, kisses Henry softly, his breath a little sour, his lips soft and yielding. “I love you,” Hugh whispers one last time, hating himself, hating what he has to _do_ , hating what he has already _done_. 

Henry smiles, eyelashes fluttering. “I love you,” he answers, barely more than a breath. 

Hugh grits his teeth, forces himself not to kiss Henry again, not to climb back into bed with him, not to hold him and touch him and lose himself in his arms one last time. He steps away from Henry, his hands trembling, his heart breaking, and then turns on his heel and flees like the coward he is. 

By noon, he is engaged to be married. 

By midnight, he has broken Henry’s heart clean in two.


	12. Anon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Colin reads disturbing news in the morning papers, Benedict panics, and Anthony has to hold things together. [T]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set pretty far down the line, maybe 7/8 years after _Oils on Canvas_ \- and it continues my recent trend of fics that actually deal with the whole Regency homophobia thing in a slightly more realistic way, so, you know, be careful and look after yourselves!

“Anthony, have you seen this?” Colin asks, tossing the morning papers down on top of the ledger laid out across Anthony’s desk. 

Anthony picks up the paper, glances up at his brother. “Good morning to you, too, Colin,” he says wryly. “So pleased that you and Benedict chose to stumble drunkenly into my house at God knows what time in the morning last night. Does Penelope have any idea where you are?” He finally looks down at the newspaper. “Seen _what_?” 

Colin taps a small news article, only a hundred words or so long, and Anthony abruptly realises that his brother’s hands are trembling. “Here,” Colin says, his voice tight, his jaw almost _vibrating_ with tension. “You need to read this, Anthony. Now.” 

Anthony reads. 

Barely thirty seconds later, his gaze jolts back up to Colin. “Where is Benedict?” 

“Upstairs,” Colin answers tightly. “I think he’s still sleeping off the beer.” 

“Fetch him,” Anthony says, staring fixedly at the newspaper in his hands. “ _Now._ ” 

Colin nods and slips out of Anthony’s study. He reappears minutes later with their brother, who has clearly just been dragged out of bed, his hair mussed, his trousers hanging low around his hips and his shirt on inside-out. “ _What?_ ” Benedict groans, rubbing at his face then peering at Anthony. “God, Anthony, you look like someone’s _died_.” 

Colin flinches. Benedict doesn’t notice. 

“Sit down, Benedict,” Anthony says, tone brooking no argument. 

Benedict sits slowly, looking up at them both with concern slowly creeping across his expression. “What’s going on?” 

Colin glances up at Anthony, his jaw set.

Anthony forcibly unfolds his fingers from the newspaper, sets it down on his desk, stares at the words in their black and white newsprint, stark and simple. “The morning news is reporting,” he says quietly, meeting Benedict’s gaze, holding firm, “that an arrest was made last night.”

Benedict looks confused. “And?” 

“An artist, Ben,” Colin says, the words tumbling out. “A prominent London portrait artist and a knight of the realm. Arrested on – _sodomy charges_.” 

All the colour drains out of Benedict’s face in an instant, and he snatches the newspaper out from under Anthony’s hands. 

“There’s no name,” Anthony says quietly. “We don’t know that it’s—”

Without warning, Benedict springs to his feet and lunges for the door. 

“ _Benedict!_ ” Anthony barks, but Colin is two steps ahead of him. He bodily grabs Benedict before he can open the door, holds him still until Anthony can reach them, and between the two of them, they manage to drag their brother back. “ _Stop_ , Benedict!” Anthony hisses, wrestling Benedict down into the chair. 

“Let me _go!_ ” Benedict shouts, utterly _stricken_. “I have to go to him, I have to _find him!_ ” 

Anthony shoves him back down, and Colin leans his hands on his shoulders, pinning him in place. “No,” Anthony says, and feels something inside him tear itself apart at the horror in Benedict’s eyes, the sheer _terror_. “No, Benedict, I can’t let you do that.” 

“ _Anthony_ —”

“If it is him and you turn up at his house in this state, they will arrest you, too,” Anthony says flatly. “I will not let that happen.” 

“I do not _care_ ,” Benedict spits, his eyes wild. “I have to—”

“ _I care!_ ” Anthony snaps, and digs his hands into Benedict’s shoulders so hard he feels his bones creak. “I will not lose you,” he says, quieter, and there are tears in Benedict’s eyes, fury and frustration and fear. 

“It may not be him,” Colin says, wound tighter than a coiled spring. “We do not know for sure. He is not the only portrait artist in London, and not the only one who has received a knighthood for his talent. We have to be sure before we do anything.” 

Anthony spares his younger brother a glance, sees the resolution in his eyes. “Yes,” he says, nodding, Benedict still straining against their hands, tendons bulging in his neck. “Yes, you’re right.”

Caught between them, Benedict _sobs_.

Colin looks like he might be sick, but Anthony just feels a strangely calm resolve settle in his heart. “I have been intending to extend him a dinner invite for some weeks now,” he says, perfectly calm, as if they were discussing the matter over port at the club. “In part to discuss the renewal of some of the artworks at Aubrey Hall. My calendar is empty tonight, and I am sure that the kitchen can rustle up an appropriately ornate meal.” 

“The messenger who delivers the invitation can report on the situation,” Colin says quietly. 

“And if, as we hope, he is free,” Anthony says, and Benedict’s face contorts in pain, “I am giving him an opportunity to visit without arousing any form of suspicion.” He ducks down, forces Benedict to meet his gaze. “Our family has commissioned him many times in the past, before and after your relationship,” he says. “This will not draw any remark, Benedict, and it will _certainly_ draw less remark than you turning up on his front doorstep looking as you do right now. Do you agree?” 

Benedict’s eyes are wild. “Do you know what happens to men like us in jail?” he spits. “Do you have _any idea_ , Anthony?”

Anthony shakes him sharply. “Do you agree?” he repeats, as cold and hard as he has to be. 

Benedict holds his gaze a moment longer, anguished, _crazed_ , then his shoulders sag and he nods. “I agree,” he says, barely more than a whisper. 

“Good,” Anthony says, and releases his grip on Benedict’s shoulders. He tucks his hands into his pockets to hide how they tremble. “I will write to him immediately, but it will be some time before we get any response. Until then, Colin, take Benedict upstairs, get him washed and dressed.” He hesitates, glances at Colin. “Don’t let him out of your sight.” 

Colin nods, his cheeks pale, and hustles Benedict away. 

Anthony sits at his desk, ignores the black and white horror of the newspaper, and writes out an impromptu invitation to dinner. He hands it to the messenger himself, then paces his study, wearing a pathway in the carpet, his heart thudding against his ribs until the man returns, his cheeks flushed from the early spring chill. “I was not able to deliver the message directly as requested,” he says, blond hair askew. “Instead I was met by the gentleman’s wife. She seemed somewhat distressed, but assured me that the invitation was accepted.” 

“By herself alone, or by herself and her husband?” Anthony presses. 

The messenger shakes his head. “She did not specify.” 

Anthony does not want to think about what might distress the formidable Lucy Granville. “Thank you,” he says to the messenger. “Do not repeat any of this to Benedict.” 

The man bows, and goes. 

Anthony will not let himself consider what Benedict might do if the worst comes to pass. 

Colin reappears with Benedict in tow in short order, significantly more fresh-faced and dressed in mismatching waistcoat and cravat. Anthony tells them as much as they need to know, then sits Benedict in a chair in the corner of his study, tells him in no uncertain terms that he is not going _anywhere_ until dinner tonight. Benedict doesn’t speak, his face ashen and his expression frozen – and that’s perhaps the worst thing of all, because Anthony expects to be shouted at, to be railed against, to meet with screams and tears and outrage, but what he gets is glassy silence, lethargy, unresponsiveness. 

Benedict sits in the corner of Anthony’s study, a book open and unread in his lap, and barely seems to acknowledge that the rest of them are there. 

Anthony takes Colin’s arm, bends their heads together. “You do not have to stay,” he says softly. “I imagine your wife may be concerned that you have fallen into a ditch somewhere and cannot get out.” 

Colin offers a small smile in exchange for Anthony’s attempt at humour. “I have sent Penelope a message saying that a matter has arisen that I must attend to,” he says, shaking his head. “I will stay.” He hesitates, glances to Benedict then back to Anthony. “The man is as much a brother to me as Hastings is,” he whispers. “I cannot _imagine_ —” He cuts himself off, shakes his head. 

Anthony grips his shoulder. “It will be alright,” he says with a confidence he doesn’t feel. 

Colin looks up at him, and there is doubt in his eyes. 

The day passes at the pace of a snail. 

The sun sets, and the curtains are drawn. The servants set out a full dinner service in the dining room, the silver gleaming under the light from the chandeliers, and the house in Grosvenor Square is full of the smell of roasting pork, stewed apples, goose fat potatoes and baking chocolate torte. Colin smokes an entire pack of cigarettes in quick succession, and Anthony spends an hour staring at an open ledger, trying to make any sense of the numbers that slip from his grasp the moment he tries to perceive them. 

Benedict has barely moved all day. He ate a little at lunch, and he’s turned a few pages of the book that still sits in his lap, but he hasn’t spoken a word. 

A few minutes after seven, Anthony hears the front door open and close. He stiffens, still sitting at his desk, a pen clutched uselessly in his hand, and sees Colin look towards the door to the study, his umpteenth cigarette in his hand. There are soft voices in the hall, footsteps, and then the door opens and—

Relief cuts through Anthony like a knife. 

“Oh thank _God_ ,” Colin murmurs. 

—Henry Granville steps inside, closing the door behind him. 

Anthony isn’t sure he’s ever seen Benedict move so fast. In the space between one heartbeat and the next, he’s darted across the study, the book in his hand dropped carelessly to the ground, and caught his lover in his arms, crushing him in his embrace, his face buried in his neck and his shoulders shaking. He says something that Anthony doesn’t catch, Granville’s expression twists, cracks, and then he’s hugging Benedict just as hard, his hands tight in Benedict’s hair. 

Anthony lets out a breath he didn’t even realise he was holding. 

Benedict pulls back just enough that he can wrap his hand around the back of Granville’s neck and kiss him, relief and fear and love all at once – and Anthony abruptly realises that this is the first time he’s seen them kiss since that rain-drenched folly, all those years ago. The realisation wrenches his heart, because he’s seen Daphne kiss Hastings, light and teasing, seen Colin kiss Penelope, tender and usually fairly apologetic, but of course that kind of chaste, fleeting expression of love is something that Benedict simply cannot have. 

“I thought you were lost,” Anthony hears Benedict breathe. “God, _Henry_ , I thought—”

Granville hushes him, kisses him again. “It was not me they were after,” he says, his voice tight. “It was Mansfield.” 

“Alexander Mansfield?” Anthony blurts, unthinking. “I know him – Scottish fellow, frequents the Mayfair club, always dresses in green for some reason?” 

Granville nods, glancing to him with what Anthony thinks might be gratitude in his eyes. “I was at dinner with him last night when they came for him,” he says, his jaw gritted, and Colin sucks in a sharp breath. “He was dragged out of his own house before the whole street.” 

Benedict is frowning, and he loosens his grip on Granville just enough that there’s a little light between their bodies. “But Mansfield, he isn’t…” He trails off, but his meaning is clear. 

Granville smiles, bitter and dark. “The truth of it does not matter,” he says. “I suspect it is targeted slander. The criminal charges will not stick but the accusations will. He is finished in London, and I cannot imagine his native Edinburgh will be much more receptive.” He looks back to Anthony, his eyes bright. “I apologise that I could not send personal reassurances with your messenger, Bridgerton,” he says. “I was… _invited_ to answer some of the peelers’ questions this morning. I could not refuse.” 

“Questions about yourself?” Anthony asks, concern flickering in his heart. 

Granville shakes his head, and Anthony doesn’t miss how his hand tightens in Benedict’s waistcoat. “No,” he says. “They were only interested in Mansfield. It was only because I happened to be there when they arrested him.” 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Benedict swears wholeheartedly. 

Anthony can’t say he disagrees. “I know that the invitation to come here tonight was a pretext, Granville,” he says, getting to his feet, “but my cook has prepared dinner for us, nonetheless.” He pauses, glancing at Benedict. “My brother was not the only one who was concerned for your safety,” he says softly. “I think it might be best, if you are up for it, if we ate.” 

Right on cue, Colin’s stomach rumbles. 

Granville laughs, and the sound is still tight, still tense, but it’s less fraught than it was when he stepped through the door. “As I have not eaten today, that sounds ideal,” he says heavily. “Although, Benedict, you do realise that you will have to let me go before we can eat.” 

Benedict responds by pulling Granville back into his arms, kissing him soundly, and then releasing him. His expression is still drawn, Anthony sees, but there’s a spark of life in his eyes that wasn’t there half an hour ago. “The only reason I will allow this,” he says, fingers intertwining with Granville’s briefly, squeezing then letting go, “is because Colin will start getting _very_ testy if he’s not fed soon.” 

Colin throws up his hands. “I said nothing!”

Granville grins at him. “You did not need to, Bridgerton,” he says wryly. “Your stomach did the talking for you.” 

Anthony barks a laugh, and as Benedict grins at the man he loves, safe and sound and _smiling_ , heady with relief, Anthony finds himself thinking of Kate, his Kate, her touch, her kiss, the smell of her hair and the light in her eyes. He does not know if he could do what his brother does, if he could hide the love he feels every second of every day, and in that moment, selfish and greedy, he is infinitely glad that he does not have to. 

Benedict’s fingers brush Granville’s as they step out of the study, heading to the dining room, but it is only the faintest of touches, nothing more.


	13. Life Drawing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry draws Benedict. [E]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like in our little Benedict/Henry corner of the fandom it's something of a rite of passage to write some Henry-draws-Benedict-and-sex-ensues fic, but I've not done that yet! So here we are - and also fulfilling a request for some more "subby, kinky Benedict"...
> 
> Set a year or so post- _Oils on Canvas_.

“Henry.” 

Henry doesn’t answer, intent on the sketchbook in his hands. His hands move with easy grace, fingers stained with charcoal dust, dancing across the page as he draws. 

Benedict shifts his weight. “Henry, can I—”

“Don’t move,” Henry says, looking up but ignoring his face, studying what Benedict is fairly sure is the arch of his left foot. “I need you to stay still, Benedict. We discussed this.” 

Benedict pulls a face. “I thought you were supposed to be a _professional_ ,” he mutters. 

Henry’s lips turn up in a smile that’s almost serene. “Most of my clients,” he says, blowing a cloud of charcoal dust off the paper, “don’t complain so much.” 

“Most of your _clients_ ,” Benedict retorts, “are not _naked_.”

Henry studies the page in front of him, frowns a little, alters something Benedict can’t see. “For which you should be glad,” he says, distracted. “Clothes can become uncomfortable and overly-warm during a long sitting, especially on a warm day like today. Nudity is perhaps preferable.” He glances up, catches Benedict’s eye with a smirk. “Although I shall perhaps not say as much to the duchess of Hastings when I attend her, the duke, and the children next week.” 

Benedict grimaces. “Henry, please do not talk about my sister when I am naked,” he complains. 

Henry shrugs and goes back to his sketchbook. 

Benedict shifts again. “Can I just—”

“Stay still, Benedict,” Henry says, but it’s not his normal tone, now, light and teasing, no – this time when he speaks, there’s an authority in his voice that Benedict usually only hears when they’re in bed together. 

Benedict finds himself stifling a whimper. 

Henry’s lips curl in a way that suggests he knows _exactly_ what he’s doing. He keeps on sketching. 

Benedict is laid out across one of the chaises in Henry’s studio, naked as the day he was born, one leg stretched out flat, the other bent at the knee. One arm lies along the low back of the chaise, the other is thrown back over the armrest, and his head rests on a carefully-placed pillow, his face half-turned towards Henry – who sits only a few feet away, fully dressed and absorbed in his sketchbook. He glances up every now and again, studying some detail of Benedict’s body, a curl of his hair, a line of his muscle, and, oh, those brief, fleeting glances are like hot wax across Benedict’s skin. He shudders with every look, his throat dry, his skin prickling, and before long his cock is hard and heavy against his thigh, leaking, aching to be touched. 

But he does as he’s told, and he doesn’t move. 

Henry hums, studies his work, and seems satisfied. He puts the sketchbook to one side, then sits back in his chair, palms himself through his trousers. “You are really quite beautiful, Benedict,” he says, his voice thick and rich and wanting. “I have spent all my life honing my artistic talents, but yet even I can only capture a fraction of your true sublimity on paper.” He stands, undoing his trousers as he comes to stand over the chaise, and Benedict almost swallows his tongue when Henry draws his cock out, strokes himself with firm, purposeful movements. 

“ _Henry_ ,” he gasps. 

“Don’t move,” Henry says, his voice rough, his breathing faster. “Stay exactly like that – ah, _Benedict!_ ” He comes, spilling across Benedict’s stomach and chest, hot and slick – and something _swells_ in Benedict’s chest at that, pride and arousal and love and want, all tangled up together. He’s practically panting by the time Henry opens his eyes again, jaw slack, nostrils flared, and then Henry’s reaching for him, his fingers long-practiced and still a little stained with charcoal, his hand closing around Benedict’s neglected cock and—

If Benedict were less keyed up right now, he would be embarrassed by how quickly he comes, his own seed joining Henry’s across his stomach. 

“Beautiful,” Henry murmurs, kissing him softly, and then disappears briefly, comes back with a damp cloth and cleans their mess off Benedict’s body. He kisses him in between wipes of the cloth, murmuring praise and love and warmth, and when he’s finished, he strips off his own clothes and pulls Benedict into his arms, his chest pressed to Benedict’s back. 

Benedict arches against him, lazy and sated, and sighs. 

Henry laughs softly. “Good?” he asks, tracing meaningless patterns across the damp skin of Benedict’s stomach. 

“ _Very_ good,” Benedict agrees, then covers Henry’s hand with his own, squeezes. “Although I don’t think you’re going to be able to show that drawing to anyone.” 

Henry snorts. “Given that all it is,” he murmurs, gently kissing Benedict’s throat, “is a series of sketches of your cock at varying stages of erection, no, I really don’t think it’s suitable for public viewing.” 

Benedict twists around in his arms, mock-outraged, mostly laughing. “You filthy old man!” 

Henry grins at him, unrepentant. “ _Your_ filthy old man,” he corrects, and pulls Benedict in for a kiss.


	14. Memento Mori

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Violet reconnects with an old friend. [T]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wlw Violet, anyone?
> 
> Set 7/8 years post- _Oils on Canvas_.

The funeral is a grand affair, the elaborate coffin laden with white lilies and carnations, a long trail of mourners snaking through the graveyard of Clattersby Hall, black lace gloves and sombre top hats and gauzy veils. It’s a clear, bright winter’s afternoon, the sky blue, the air crisp, and the paths are a little slippy underfoot, not so much that anyone has gone tumbling but enough that Violet finds herself stepping carefully in her smart black shoes. 

“Here,” Benedict says, offering her his arm. “I’m not sure Lady Marsden would be _hugely_ pleased if you slipped and broke your neck on the day of her husband’s funeral.” 

Violet slips her arm through his, hangs on for dear life. “Yes, that might come across as a little attention-seeking, wouldn’t it?” she says. “Wouldn’t want to take all the attention away from the duchess of Sussex, after all.”

Benedict eyes the duchess critically. “The headpiece is a _little_ ostentatious.”

Violet smiles behind her fur collar. “Peacock feathers and bright green velvet? Oh no, for the duchess that’s practically _subtle_.” 

Benedict laughs quietly. “Cutting, mother,” he comments in her ear. 

“I prefer the term ‘accurate’,” Violet answers with a grin, and then has to grab at Benedict’s arm once more as her shoes skid on the icy ground. 

They arrive at the graveside with the other mourners, the atmosphere a little more sombre once all the slipping and tripping is over with. All the pomp and circumstance of death was completed in the chapel, all the incense and ceremony and lengthy readings from the Book of Revelations, and now all there’s left is to sink the coffin into the earth, to stand by as Lady Marsden and her children say their final goodbyes. 

Violet can’t help but remember another day like this, years ago, when it was _her_ at the head of the grave, gripping Daphne’s hand on one side and Eloise’s on the other, Gregory and Hyacinth in the care of their nurses, too young to really understand what was happening, Anthony’s face too young to be so grim, Benedict’s arm trembling around Colin’s shoulders. Violet shivers despite her layers, the old grief that never really leaves her welling up once more in her heart, and tightens her grip on her son’s arm involuntarily. Benedict shifts closer, his hand covering hers, his body a warm, solid presence at her side, and she knows without a doubt that he’s remembering the exact same thing. 

Violet feels grief twist in her chest, ever present, ever painful, and can’t quite suppress the guilt in her heart at the knowledge that it isn’t quite as painful as it once was. 

They retire to the grand reception rooms of Clattersby Hall once the coffin has been lowered into the ground and left for the groundskeepers to bury properly. There is an appropriately lavish spread put on, canapes and sandwiches and enough alcohol to feed an army, and Violet goes through the appropriate motions, exchanging brief greetings to people she knows and expressing her condolences to the new Lord Marsden, a tall man in his thirties with lily-pale skin and a shock of hair blacker than the night sky. Benedict stays with her throughout the wake, partially because the Marsdens aren’t exactly his usual social circle but mainly, she imagines, because she’s still a little shaky. 

She appreciates it more than she can really express. 

The afternoon is darkening when Violet pats Benedict’s hand. “You will have to entertain yourself for a little while, Benedict,” she says with a wry smile. “I must speak to Lady Marsden.” 

Benedict studies her assessingly. “I can come with you, if you need me to,” he says quietly. “It is no problem.”

Violet smiles at him, her gentle, caring son. “I will manage,” she says, squeezing his hand. “Adele is an old friend, and I would not want to subject you to the ramblings of a pair of old women.”

A light sparks in Benedict’s eyes. “Adele?” he asks. “ _The_ Adele? _Your_ Adele?” 

For a second, Violet doesn’t quite understand what he means – but then she remembers Daphne’s winter ball, their quiet conversation beneath the boughs of holly and mistletoe, and she flushes. “She is not _my_ Adele,” she whispers. 

The look in Benedict’s eyes can only really be described as _glee_. “It _is_ her, though?” he asks, guiding them away from the rest of the mourners. “The woman you—”

“This is her husband’s funeral, Benedict,” Violet interrupts firmly. “Choose your words carefully.” 

“All I am _saying_ ,” Benedict murmurs, “is that perhaps Lady Marsden remembers you… _fondly_.” 

“ _Benedict_.” 

Benedict’s gaze softens. “It has been many years since Father died,” he whispers, and, _oh_ , his words send a jolt of sudden grief through Violet’s heart. “You are not betraying him if you seek comfort in the companionship of another.” 

Tears sting Violet’s eyes, just a little. “Benedict…” 

Benedict smiles, kisses her gloved hand, lets her go. “I see a friend from the club,” he says, his eyes sparkling. “Do find me when you’re ready to go, Mother. I’m sure I can entertain myself for a while.” And he disappears into the throng. 

Violet opens her mouth to protest, closes it again when she realises that there’s no point, then huffs an irritated breath and folds her arms. That is _hardly_ appropriate behaviour for a funeral, _really_ , what is Benedict _thinking?_ This is a day for mourning and remembrance, not for… _that_. 

No, she will leave Lady Marsden be. She will chat politely with her fellow mourners, she will sip Lord Marsden’s favourite champagne and nibble on his favourite shrimp canapes, and then she will return home to her comfortable dowager life, and continue. 

“Violet?” 

Violet spins. “Adele,” she says, and for some reason she has to fight the urge to smile. She steps forward, takes Adele’s black-gloved hands in her own. “I had been meaning to speak to you, but didn’t want to interrupt. I am so sorry for your loss.” 

In many ways, Adele hasn’t changed since they were girls. She’s a little taller than Violet, strong jaw, high forehead, and her hair is the same jet black that she clearly passed on to her son. Her lips are full, her eyes as dark as her hair, and the curves of her body are somehow only flattered all the more by the mourning black that she wears. She squeezes Violet’s hands, and a faint shiver runs down her spine. “Thank you,” Adele says in that familiar warm alto. “And thank you for coming today.” She smiles faintly, leans closer. “It was nice to see a friendly face among all the society vultures.” 

“Or the peacocks, as the case may be,” Violet murmurs, glancing sideways at the duchess of Sussex. 

Adele laughs, low and throaty. “Yes, dear Rebecca has rather misjudged the tone,” she murmurs, slipping her arm into Violet’s. “I can’t say I am _wholly_ surprised.”

“Perhaps she forgets that, unlike her, not every woman of the _ton_ is actually looking forward to the day her husband passes away,” Violet suggests, and, oh, that _really_ isn’t an appropriate thing to say to a woman who has just lost her _husband_ —

Adele _snorts_. “I’m honestly surprised that she hasn’t already sunk a steak knife into the duke’s back,” she whispers. “Or put arsenic into his dinner.” 

There’s a strange kind of warmth growing in Violet’s heart. “The icy path outside would have given her the _perfect_ excuse,” she says. “Very slippy – and, well, the duke is _rather_ old. Doddery might be the right word. A push at the right time…” 

Adele laughs, so loud it draws a couple of startled glances. Violet flushes but Adele seems not to notice, and, well, this is her husband’s funeral, after all. “Oh, you did always make me laugh, Violet,” Adele says, overspilling with warmth. “I do not see you anywhere _near_ enough nowadays.” She pauses, studies Violet’s face, a familiar softness in her gaze. “I would very much like to change that, my old friend.” 

Violet grips her hand, squeezes. “I would like that, too,” she says, and there’s that warmth again, rich and almost intoxicating. 

Adele studies her for a moment, her dark eyes open and oddly vulnerable, then glances down at their joined hands. “I loved James in my own way,” she says, achingly quiet, “but our marriage was always one of propriety and the production of heirs rather than love. Not like you and Edmund.” She glances back up to Violet’s face, doesn’t let go of her hands. “We were great friends,” she says, “and I mourn his passing deeply. But at the same time, I cannot help but feel somewhat… _free_.” She grimaces. “Does that make me an awful person, Letty?” 

The girlhood nickname sends a shudder through Violet’s spine. “No,” she whispers, her heart abruptly _racing_. “No, Ella, it makes you human.”

Adele smiles, small and fragmentary. “I have missed you,” she whispers in return, and Violet knows that the words she says are not the words she means. “All this time.”

Violet thinks of Edmund, her husband, her _love_ , of the empty pillow that she lies beside each night, of the void in her life that no one will ever fill – but he has been gone for _so long_ now. “You must come visit,” she says, her voice a little hoarse, squeezing Adele’s hands. “No excuses. You will come visit me at Grosvenor Square next week, say, come for dinner on Monday, and it will be as it was before all these men came tearing into our lives.” Her heart thuds in her breast. “Say you will?” 

“You could not keep me away,” Adele says, a light in her eyes, in her voice, in her soul, Violet fancies. She leans forward, kisses Violet’s cheek, her breath warm and sweet against her skin, oh, against her _lips_ – and when she releases Violet’s hands and steps away, Violet thinks that she sees the oldest of promises in her smile. “I fear I must see to my guests,” Adele says, the picture of matronly charm, her hands folded neatly at her waist. “But I will see you soon, my friend.” 

Violet’s heart is beating like she is a damn _girl_ again. 

She goes in search of a glass of wine, and is immediately intercepted by her son – who, to his credit, has had the forethought to bring her a flute of champagne. She takes it from him, drinks half of it in one. Her hands are trembling. 

Benedict takes her arm, leans close. “I saw that kiss, Mother,” he whispers in her ear. “Lady Marsden is a _flirt_.” 

Violet hushes him, then drinks the other half of her champagne. “She will call on me in London next week,” she whispers back. 

Benedict is practically vibrating with excitement. “But _Mother!_ ” he protests, mock-horrified. “This is a _funeral!_ It is hardly appropriate for you to be getting your talons into the recently bereaved so quickly…” 

Violet smacks him lightly. “Oh, hush,” she says, exchanging her empty glass for a full one carried by a politely-smiling servant. “It is not like that. It is simply dinner.” 

Benedict nods sagely. “Oh yes,” he says, patting her hand where it rests in the crook of his arm. “I have several such dinners with Mr Granville every week. I know them well.” 

Violet smacks him again, but there is a smile twitching her lips that she can’t suppress. She drinks another mouthful of champagne, heady and rich on her tongue, and there is a lightness to her heart that she has not felt in, oh, a very, _very_ long time. She thinks of Edmund, her Edmund, her love, and it’s not that the break in her heart is healed, no, that will _never_ heal, but perhaps it is time to stop living as if that break is the only thing that matters. 

Benedict is grinning. “Oh,” he whispers, full of mischief, “I cannot _wait_ to tell Anthony about this.” 

Violet rounds on him, eyes wide. “Do not tell your brother!” she hisses. 

Benedict tries and fails to look innocent. “I would _never!_ ” 

“ _Benedict!_ ” 

Benedict grins, swipes the champagne from her hand, and finishes it in one.


	15. Scarlet, Vermillion, Crimson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Violence leaves its mark on Benedict. [T]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Li'l bit of whump. (Although there is quite a bit more coming over the next few days...) 
> 
> Set about 6 months after the end of _Oils on Canvas_.

Benedict wakes with the taste of blood in his mouth. 

He sits bolt upright, his chest heaving, the sheets tangled around his legs, and fights for breath. His heart is _racing_ , hammering against his ribs like it’s trying to get out of its cage, and his skin is clammy, sweaty, too hot and too cold all at once. He sobs once, unbidden, and knots his hands in the sheets, trying to centre himself, trying and _failing_. 

Warm hands press against his back, his shoulders, his trembling arms. “You’re safe, Benedict,” Henry whispers, his voice rough with sleep, and wraps himself around Benedict with slow, careful movements. He kisses his shoulder, presses his palm to Benedict’s chest, over his heart. “I have you. You’re safe.” 

Benedict’s breath hiccups in his throat, uneven, choked. He can’t catch it. 

“Breathe with me,” Henry murmurs, and Benedict shakes his head, he can’t, he _can’t_. “Hush,” Henry says, firmer, and Benedict starts to feel the exaggerated expansion and contraction of Henry’s chest against his back, in and out, in and out. 

In and out, in and out. 

Benedict closes his eyes, ignores the tears that are dripping down his cheeks, and breathes. 

He breathes. 

Henry doesn’t move, wrapped around him, his palm to Benedict’s chest, periodically pressing gentle kisses to his shoulder. His body is warm and solid, his hands steady, his embrace firm, and little by little Benedict feels himself calm. The phantom pain in his ribs slips away, the memory of blood in his mouth fades to nothing. He calms. 

After a while, he reaches up, fumbles for Henry’s hand, interlaces their fingers and squeezes his thanks. 

Henry hooks his chin over Benedict’s shoulder. “The same dream?” he asks softly, barely more than a dusting of moonlight. 

Benedict nods. “That night,” he whispers, cracked and throaty. “The alehouse, when—” He can’t continue. 

“You don’t have to talk about it,” Henry reassures him gently. 

“I wish I remembered more,” Benedict manages, his eyes screwing shut, his lips twisting in sorrow. “It’s all so hazy, I was so _drunk!_ I remember the beating, and the pain afterwards, I remember _that_ , but I don’t remember their faces, or what I said to turn them against me. I wish—” He cuts himself off again, shakes his head. 

“They cannot hurt you,” Henry whispers, anger and guilt sparking in his voice. “I swear, Benedict, I will not let anyone hurt you like that _ever_ again.” 

Benedict turns his head, catches Henry’s lips in an awkward kiss. “It is not your fault,” he says. “Henry, you know I do not blame you.” 

Henry just smiles, bitter and tight. “I know you do not,” he says. “I know.” 

It is a conversation they have had many times before and that, Benedict suspects, they will have many times in the future. Right now, though, he doesn’t have the energy. He shifts in Henry’s arms, lies back down and pulls Henry with him, face to face, foreheads touching, breathing the same air. “I’m sorry I woke you,” Benedict murmurs. 

Henry reaches up, wipes the tears from Benedict’s cheeks. “I am not,” he answers, leans forward, kisses him softly. “I will never be sorry for any moment I spend with you.” 

Benedict smiles wryly. “You are a horrible flirt, Henry,” he says, his voice still a little shaky, tired, so tired. 

“Only with you,” Henry answers, kisses him again. “Go back to sleep, Benedict. I will be here when you wake.” 

Benedict nods, closes his eyes, and lets himself slip back into the velvet dark of sleep, held safe in the warmth of Henry’s hands, the soft whisper of his breath, the thump of his heart. He sleeps, and this time, he doesn’t dream.


	16. Mixed Media, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Benedict meets a strange woman at a party at the studio. [M]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, here we go. 
> 
> "Mixed Media" is in three parts, and I'll be posting them over the next three days (Thurs/Fri/Sat). It gets fairly dark at points, so please heed the tags on this one, particularly "Date Rape Drugs", "Attempted Rape", and "Abuse". Also bear in mind that (slight spoiler) Part 1 does end on a bit of a patented sospes cliffhanger. Use your judgement, and be safe. 
> 
> (Wee bit nervous about posting this one because I've had... let's go with _negative_ responses for similar subject matter before, but I'm committed now!) 
> 
> This is set about 5 years after _Oils on Canvas_ , and given that I've already posted Sketches set after this one, you can be fairly confident that it's going to be at least mostly a happy ending!

“May I take this spot?”

Benedict glances up from the easel in front of him, flashes the young woman a smile. “Of course,” he says, clearing a small pile of his own messy sketches off the stool next to him. “Sorry about the mess.” He tucks them under the foot of his customary easel, manages to avoid kicking over his glass of wine, then glances back up as the woman takes her seat. “I’ve not seen you here before,” he says, hoping he sounds welcoming rather than intrusive. “I’m Benedict.”

“Yes, this is my first time,” the woman answers with an answering smile. “My name is Rosalind. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Benedict.” 

The cadence of her voice and the elegance of her dress suggests an aristocratic family, as does the complexity of her hairstyle and the small diamonds hanging from her ears. That’s not exactly unsurprising – there are any number of high society men and women who find their way to the Granvilles’ events, mostly because of the circles Henry and Lucy tend to move in. Some, like Benedict, are open about their families. Others are more clandestine, like the marchioness of Richmond, who goes only by the moniker “Aristotle” and will not answer to anything else. To each their own. 

Rosalind is already sketching, shadows and form appearing beneath her fingers with the utmost ease. She seems absorbed in her work, glancing up occasionally at the models’ bodies, and, well, far be it from Benedict to intrude on someone else’s contemplation. He retrieves his wine, sips it slowly, and turns back to his own easel. 

He exchanges a few more words with Rosalind throughout the evening, complimenting her on the way she captured the flow of the model’s long hair, sharing a quiet joke about a kissing couple who manage to knock one of the other easels over on their way to a dark corner, accepting a new stick of charcoal from her when he manages to snap his own in two. She’s quiet but has a good sense of humour and is frankly _cutting_ when it comes to the inadequacies of others—under her breath, she describes another guest’s efforts at depicting the model’s calves as “hamlike” and “bloated”, which makes Benedict snort—and, all in all, Benedict finds himself enjoying her company. They share a bottle of wine, and the evening passes. 

Benedict glances up almost instinctively as Henry pauses in the doorway, and their eyes meet, soft and warm, drawn to each other as they always are. Henry smiles, winks briefly, and disappears back into the rapidly spiralling debauchery of the party. 

“Would you like to finish it off?” Rosalind asks, angling the bottle towards him. 

Benedict holds up his glass. “Oh, if you insist.” 

She pours the last of the bottle into his glass, and they sketch. 

After a moment or two, Benedict blinks, shakes his head a little. The paper in front of him is oddly… hazy? It drifts in and out of focus, and he has to squint to see. His fingers are abruptly nerveless, the charcoal drops from his grip to clatter on the floorboards, and when he reaches for it, all he manages to do is spill the dregs of his wine across his own half-finished sketches. 

“Benedict?” Rosalind asks, concern in her voice. “Are you well?”

“I’m… fine,” Benedict manages, hauling himself upright with difficulty. “Just feeling a bit – _dizzy_.” He tries to laugh. “Too much wine, I think.” He stands, not without effort, and has to close his eyes against the sudden headrush. “Need some fresh air.”

He feels Rosalind take his arm, her grip strangely firm. “Come on, I’ll help you,” she says, her tone brooking no argument, and Benedict finds himself being guided away from the models, the easels, the drawing. He’s unsteady, wavering, and Rosalind’s grip isn’t enough to stop him stumbling. He catches himself against the wall, breathing hard, dizzy, head spinning, black shadows tugging at the edge of his vision. 

“Benedict?” a familiar voice asks, female, rich, familiar accent, oh, _Genevieve_. A slender hand touches his cheek, his hair. “What’s wrong? You look—” 

“He’s fine,” Rosalind interrupts, sharp and almost territorial. Benedict has a brief urge to make a joke about that, about her being too late, about how Genevieve has touched him in _far_ more intimate ways than she ever will, but Rosalind is saying, “He just needs to rest. I have him, Madame,” and he’s being guided through the shadowy, twisting studio and pushed down onto his back on a familiar bed, _Henry’s_ bed, the embroidery of the covers rough beneath his fingers. A weight settles astride his waist, fingers tugging open the front of his shirt, lips pressing against his, _Henry_ , but it doesn’t smell like Henry, wait, _no_. “It’s alright, Mr Bridgerton,” Rosalind says, and, oh, _fuck_ , Benedict never told her his surname. “This won’t take long.” 

Benedict tries to push her away, she’s just a slip of a woman, slim and slender, he should be able to push her away but there’s no strength in his arms and he can’t _stop_ her as she pulls his shirt open, runs her fingers down his chest, reaches for his trousers. “No,” he croaks, panic rising in his chest. “ _Henry!_ ”

Rosalind shushes him. “I am sorry to do this to you,” she says, sounding genuinely apologetic, “but I need a husband of good standing, a husband who will protect me from my monster of a father, and you are an unmarried Bridgerton. Your family is known for its honour, for its _conviction_ , so once I am pregnant with your child, you will have no choice but to do the right thing and marry me – and then I will be _safe_.” She pats his chest, tugs his trousers open. “I will be gentle,” she reassures him like that’s supposed to _help_.

“Stop,” Benedict rasps, his body numb and useless, his vision going black, fading. “ _Please_.” 

“Just sleep,” Rosalind says, her fingers brushing the tears from his cheeks. “I’ll look after you.” 

Darkness surges through his mind, and Benedict passes out.


	17. Mixed Media, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucy realises something isn’t right. [M]

“ _Lucy_.”

Lucy pauses, glances back over her shoulder, sees Genevieve hurrying towards her. “Genevieve,” she says warmly, reaching for the modiste’s hand. “I thought you were still in Paris!”

“I returned to London two days ago,” Genevieve answers, but her voice is tight, fraught. She doesn’t seem to be in the mood to reminisce. “Lucy, there is a woman here – very thin, pale skin, dressed in Venetian lace.”

Lucy pauses for a moment, frowning, then remembers. “Ah yes, Miss Allsborough,” she says. “With the diamond earrings? She’s a little overdressed for this evening, really, but that’s my fault – I must not have explained the expectations of the occasion very well when I extended the invitation.” 

Genevieve nods, and there’s something almost impatient in her manner. “Yes, her,” she insists. “Is she sleeping with Benedict Bridgerton?” 

Lucy just stares at Genevieve for a second. “I _very_ much doubt it,” she manages finally, a memory flashing almost unbidden before her mind’s eye of her husband and his lover, entwined in Henry’s bed, soft moans, sharp cries, the two of them moving in perfect sync. “Why _ever_ do you ask such a question?” 

“Because I saw them in the hallway,” Genevieve answers, her voice tight. “Benedict, he could barely _walk_ – and this Allsborough girl, I believe she was leading him to one of the bedrooms.”

A cold hand closes around Lucy’s heart. “Show me,” she says sharply, gripping Genevieve’s hand tighter. “ _Now_.” 

Genevieve leads her through the chaos of the party, through drunken, carefree revellers to the quieter hallways at the back of the studio, to the bedrooms that Lucy and Henry occasionally collapse into after nights like these instead of returning to the house. “It was here,” Genevieve says, scanning the closed doors, “but I did not see where they went.” 

Spurred by instinct and fear, Lucy pushes the door of her husband’s bedroom open. 

Benedict is there, sprawled out across Henry’s bed, his shirt open and head thrown back in a position that almost looks like ecstasy. There’s a woman sitting astride him, diamond earrings, lacework dress, and when she looks back, Lucy recognises the girl she met at the opera two weeks ago, the lord’s daughter whose eyes were dark and full of fear. Rosalind’s expression twists, offended, outraged, and she snaps “What do you think you are _doing_ , Mrs Granville?” with all the arrogance of the high-born – and for a horrible, horrible second, Lucy thinks that her Henry is about to get his heart broken all over again.

Except then she sees the laxity in Benedict’s body, the slump of his shoulders, _his unconscious face_.

Rage flares in Lucy heart. “ _Do not touch him!_ ” she snarls, crosses the room in three steps, grabs the outraged girl by her hair and hauls her away from Benedict. A glance is enough to tell her that he’s unharmed, his shirt and trousers ripped open but his underclothes untouched, and in a flash of relief Lucy slaps Rosalind across the face. “ _How dare you!_ ” she hisses, almost speechless with fury, and out of the corner of her eye she sees Genevieve leaning over Benedict, her knuckles brushing his cheek. “I did not invite you here for you to do _this!_ ”

There are tears in Rosalind’s eyes, hot and furious, and all of a sudden her voice is breaking. “I _have_ to,” she practically shrieks. “You promised me _freedom_ , this is how I am _free_.” She twists against Lucy’s hands, scratching at her wrists, and Lucy is fairly sure that that should hurt but all she feels is anger. “I will be gentle with him, I swear,” the girl babbles, hysteria drowning her anger, “but I _have_ to, Lucy, _please_ , I cannot go back to my father, the things he _does_ to me, I _cannot_ —” 

“Lucy,” Genevieve interrupts, worry in her voice. “I cannot wake him.” 

Lucy drags the wailing Rosalind to a cupboard in the corner that is full of Henry’s paint-spattered clothes, shoves her inside, and turns the key in the lock. She will think about the selfish, sobbing girl later, and for now she goes to Genevieve’s side, takes Benedict’s face between her hands and slaps him none too gently. “ _Benedict_ ,” she says sternly, but all she gets in response is the faintest flutter of his eyelids and, oh, _God_ , a bubble of vomit spilling from his lips. Genevieve swears fiercely and between them they roll him onto his side, just in time for him to vomit again, rank and faintly bloody. 

“Whatever it is that she has given him, she has given him too much,” Genevieve says quietly. “He needs a doctor.” 

Lucy agrees. “I will stay with him,” she says. “Find Henry, tell him to get rid of the guests and then send for help.” 

Genevieve nods, her expression tight, gathers her skirts and goes. 

“Benedict,” Lucy says, pushing his hair back from his eyes. “Benedict, can you hear me?” 

There’s no response, only another spurt of bile. His lips are flecked with blood, and Lucy feels something tremble in her heart, something dark and horrid and fearful. Oh God, she brought the girl here, she _invited_ her and then she did _this_ , oh, Henry will never forgive her if—

 _No._ No, she will not think like that. 

“Wake up, Benedict,” she murmurs, stroking her fingers through his hair. “ _Please_.” 

He doesn’t respond, but his eyelashes flutter faintly against his cheeks, enough that she can see he’s still alive. Lucy sets her expression, takes a breath, and then goes to fetch the washbasin in the corner of Henry’s bedroom, carries it over to the bed and sets it next to Benedict’s almost motionless form. She wets a cloth and wipes his face, cleaning away as much of the vomit and blood as she can, then rinses it out, wets it again, presses it to his too-warm forehead. “Come on, Benedict,” she murmurs. “Come back to us.” 

Footsteps sound in the hall, frantic and racing, and the door crashes open. Henry’s eyes are wild and terrified, and the noise he makes when he sees them is utterly indescribable, horror and rage and _grief_. “Is he—?”

“He is alive,” Lucy interrupts before her husband can even think the words. “Come here, Henry, maybe he will respond better to you.” 

Henry is at her side in a moment, and he moans in pain when he sees Benedict, his shaking hands smoothing through his lover’s hair. “Benedict,” he whispers, leans down, presses their foreheads together. “My love, _please_.” 

“Allardyce has gone to fetch the doctor,” Genevieve says, standing in the open doorway, studiously not looking at Henry and Benedict. “Samuel and Leticia are ensuring that all the guests leave, although I am afraid the parrot has once again escaped and cannot be found.” 

“Thank you,” Lucy says, trying to smile. “And thank you for finding me in time, Genevieve. I do not know what—”

A soft groan comes from the bed, and all three of them freeze. 

Henry makes a tiny sobbing noise in the back of his throat. “Benedict?” he whispers, full of hope. “Benedict, please, wake up, I am _here_ , come back to me, please _God_ come back to me.” 

Benedict’s eyes flutter. “Henry?” he husks, barely audible. 

“Yes, yes, _yes_ ,” Henry chants, and Lucy feels her heart seize in her chest, relief and fear and _love_. “Benedict, yes, I am here, I _swear_ I am here.” 

Lucy sees fear flash in Benedict’s eyes. “ _She_ —” 

“She will not touch you,” Lucy says, sharp and strident, watching as his eyes twist to her, slow and sluggish. “I _promise_ , Benedict, she will not touch you.” 

One of Benedict’s hands comes up, slow and wavering, and lands limply against Henry’s cheek. Henry catches it, kisses Benedict’s palm, utters that same choked sob, leans down, kisses his lips. “Oh, I thought I had lost you,” Henry whispers, so much pain in his voice that Lucy reaches out, grips his shoulder, feels her heart hurt in time with his. “My _love_ , I cannot lose you.” 

“I’m here,” Benedict manages, still slurred and halting but getting clearer with every passing moment, his fingers clenching loosely around Henry’s. “I’m here.” 

Lucy closes her eyes, relieved and heartsick all at once, and lets herself breathe.


	18. Mixed Media, Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry picks up the pieces. [M]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's enough hurt, time for some comfort.

Henry does not leave Benedict’s side that night, not when the doctor arrives, not when the rake-thin fellow prescribes various cleansing drugs that have Benedict vomiting for a further half an hour, not when his lover collapses into a sweaty, shaking heap in the ruined bedsheets. He and the doctor half-carry Benedict next door to Lucy’s untouched bedroom, away from the smell of vomit and the flecks of bright blood, and when it becomes clear that there is nothing more the doctor can do, Henry sends him away and has the servants bring him warm water and clean clothes. He strips Benedict down to nothing but his skin, cleans him as best he can, then coaxes him into a loose shirt and trousers. 

Benedict groans, sitting on the edge of the bed, and slumps forward so fast Henry has to catch him. “ _Ah_ ,” he moans, face twisting in pain. “My _head_.” 

Henry eases him down until he’s lying on his back, pulls the sheets over him. “Sleep,” he whispers, kissing Benedict’s forehead. “I’ll be here.” 

Benedict looks up at him, gaze fraught, eyes shining. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I couldn’t stop her, I _tried_ …” He trails off, grimacing in pain. 

Henry shushes him, smiling as gently as he can. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” he murmurs as his heart sinks in his chest, because all Madame Delacroix told him was that Benedict was _hurt_ , that they could not _wake_ him, there was no time for her to tell him _why_. “Sleep,” he instructs again, and watches as Benedict’s eyes slide shut, weighed down by exhaustion and hurt. 

Henry’s hands are still shaking, and he settles himself in a chair at the side of the bed. He will not leave, not for _anything_ , and for a moment he thinks of the last time he saw Benedict, content and happy at his easel, his lips curling in a smile that he only ever smiles for Henry. 

And now _this_.

Henry takes Benedict’s hand, kisses his knuckles, and doesn’t let go. 

After a while, the door opens quietly and Lucy slips inside. She pads silently to his side, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, and rests her hand on his shoulder. “How is he?” 

“Resting,” Henry answers quietly, tearing his gaze away from Benedict’s sleeping face. “Lucy, what _happened?_ One minute I am discussing that _awful_ landscape in Sothebys with Mansfield and Roche, the next Benedict is—” He cuts himself off, shakes his head. “The next Madame Delacroix is sending everyone home and telling me that something is wrong with Benedict,” he says instead. “What happened?” 

Lucy’s face is sombre. “I invited the young woman I met last week at the premiere of the new Rossini opera,” she says. “I believe I mentioned her to you – Rosalind Allsborough, the youngest daughter of Lord Malcolm Allsborough.” She lets out a long breath, calming herself, and her fingers twitch on Henry’s shoulder. “It transpires that her father is not the kindly gentleman that he would have the world believe,” she murmurs. “She has lived a life of horrors, Henry, things I would not wish on _anyone_ , but I did not _know_ , she did not—” She presses her hand to her lips, jaw tight. 

“We will send her to Aristotle,” Henry says quietly. “She’s helped girls like her before.” 

Lucy bares her teeth in a _snarl_. “The girl took matters into her own hands before I could so much as _think_ of helping her,” she says bitterly. “Hatched her own plan of escape, approached me so that I would invite her tonight, so that she could get close enough to Benedict to—” She breaks off again, incandescent with rage. 

“To do _what_?” Henry asks, dread curdling in his gut. 

“To drug him,” Lucy answers sharply. “To drug him so that he could not _stop_ her, so that she could _trap_ him into marrying her, to force him to act as her saviour by – by getting herself _pregnant_ with his _child!_ ”

Henry’s heart goes cold. “She tried to rape him?” he asks, flat and quiet. 

“She was not successful,” Lucy says, her cheeks flushed. “Genevieve saw them, she saw something was wrong, and we stopped the bitch before she could do more than _paw_ at him. But she clearly knows nothing about whatever it is she gave him and gave him far too much, the idiot, the utter fucking _idiot_ , she could have _killed him!_ ”

Henry’s heart is racing. “He apologised to me,” he whispers, his fingers tightening around Benedict’s limp hand. “He _apologised_.” 

“He has _nothing_ to apologise for,” Lucy spits, bitter and vehement. 

Henry closes his eyes, just briefly. He thought he knew of the cruelties people could inflict on one another, knew the ways that people hurt each other, but _this_ … “The girl,” he says, still flat and quiet. “Where is she?” 

“Gone,” Lucy answers shortly. “Genevieve took her to Aristotle, to the freedom that she was so _desperate_ for.” She shakes her head, tears in her eyes. “I wanted to claw her eyes from her skull,” she says, terrifyingly quiet, “but I have washed enough blood from my hands today.” 

Henry leans forward, kisses Benedict’s limp hand one more time, then releases him, gets to his feet. He turns to his wife and pulls her into his arms even as she resists him, holds her close as she trembles and shakes and crumbles, and says, “Thank you, Lucy. Thank you for saving him.” 

“I did not _save_ him,” Lucy bites out, her fingers curling in his shirt. “I _brought_ her here, Henry, I am _responsible_ —”

“You stopped her,” Henry interrupts, as firm as he can when his heart is breaking. “You saved him. You sent the girl away, sent her to the help that _she_ needs, Lucy, when I am fairly sure that I would have strangled her with my bare hands.”

Lucy buries her face in his shoulder and sobs. Henry holds her steady as she cries, all the guilt and pain and fear pouring out of her, and when she has nothing left, when she’s wavering with exhaustion, he leads her to the sofa that sits along one wall, settles her down and tucks her blanket around her. “You need to sleep, too, dearest,” Henry whispers as her eyelids flutter. “So sleep.” 

Lucy sighs, her whole body going lax, and before long she’s asleep, breaths long and slow. 

Henry goes back to Benedict’s side, sits quiet and calm, studying Benedict’s face, pale cheeks, pale lips, hollow eyes, gazes at him, leans forward, fingers shaking, shoulders shaking, takes his hand once more, presses it to his cheek as tears slip down his cheeks. “I am sorry,” he whispers. “I am so _sorry_.” 

Benedict sleeps on, still and quiet. 

Henry must doze off at some point, because the next thing he knows the room is full of sunlight and long fingers are carding slowly through his hair. For a moment, he doesn’t remember the hurt and the horror and the fear and he just sinks into the feeling of Benedict’s touch – but then it all comes flooding back, and he jerks upright, a blanket that wasn’t there before sliding off his shoulders, and catches Benedict’s hand. “You’re awake,” he says, his voice rough with sleep. He glances back, sees that the sofa Lucy slept on is empty, turns back to Benedict. “How do you feel?” 

Benedict is pale and wan, but Henry thinks there might be more colour in his cheeks than there was last night. “Awful,” he rasps in a croaky whisper, then smiles faintly. “Don’t think I’ll be fencing with Colin today.” 

“No, I think not,” Henry says softly, and something tight and twisted in his heart slips loose. He lets out a breath, kisses Benedict’s palm. “What do you remember?” 

“Everything,” Benedict answers in that same hoarse rasp. “That woman, Rosalind, she—”

“She is gone,” Henry says, his voice tight. “She will not touch you. She _did not_ touch you, Lucy saw to that.”

Benedict’s fingers flex against his cheek. “I would have tried to help her if she had just _asked_ ,” he whispers, tears in his eyes. “She did not have to do what she did.” 

Henry laughs, leans forward, kisses Benedict as carefully as he can manage when there is so much aching in his heart. “You are far too good a man, you fool,” he whispers, kisses him again. “You did not make her choices for her, you did not drive her to the peak that she leapt off. You do not have to feel responsible for her, for her actions.” Another kiss, longer. “You _do not_ need to apologise.” 

Benedict’s lips crook. “I think I might have spoiled the party,” he rasps. “I should apologise for that.” 

“Oh, you ruin all my parties,” Henry murmurs with a wry smile. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” 

Benedict tries to laugh at that, but then winces, hisses in pain. “ _Ah_ ,” he says, then coughs, rasping and harsh, his body wracked with every gasp. 

Henry reaches for the medicine the doctor left, shifts onto the bed at Benedict’s side and helps him drink, holds him steady as convulsions spasm through his body, rubs soothing hands down his back and waits it out. Benedict collapses back against him, breathing heavily, tiny coughs still twisting themselves out of his ravaged lungs and throat, and Henry wraps himself around him, his chest to Benedict’s back, not pinning him down, not holding him in, just giving him an anchor, something to cling to. 

Benedict stills, his breathing hoarse, his body trembling. “Henry,” he whispers, and there are tears on his cheeks, in his voice. His fingers grasp for Henry’s, shaking, trembling, and Henry catches Benedict’s hand, intertwines. “My God, this _hurts_ ,” he gasps. 

“Try to relax,” Henry whispers, kissing his shoulder, his neck. “Just breathe, Benedict. Just breathe with me.” 

Benedict reaches back, his hand trembling, brushes Henry’s cheek. “I love you,” he says, voice cracked and breaking. 

“I love you,” Henry murmurs. “I have you. You’re alright, I promise.” 

Benedict sighs, sinks back against him. “I just wanted to _draw_ ,” he husks, a little plaintive, his head heavy against Henry’s shoulder. “I just wanted to draw, and drink, and fall into bed with you at the end of the night.” 

Henry smiles as much as he can. “Well, we are in bed now,” he murmurs, tightening his arms. 

Benedict rasps a laugh. “Not quite how I imagined,” he points out. “Although,” he confesses, a little quieter, “I will admit that I do feel… better knowing that you are here.” He hesitates. “Safer.” 

“You are safe,” Henry insists. “I _swear_ to you.” 

Benedict covers Henry’s hands with his own, entwines their fingers, squeezes. “I know,” he whispers. “I know. Just – do not leave for a little while? Stay with me?” 

“There is nothing that could tear me from you,” Henry whispers. “ _Nothing_.” 

Benedict sags in his arms, exhausted, hurting, and Henry feels him start to shake, hears the softest of sobs fall from his lips. He holds him close, holds him steady, whispers words of reassurance and comfort and love, holds him as the fear works its way through him, holds him close and doesn’t let him go.


	19. The Sublime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Colin has some questions for Benedict. [M]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this borderline crack? Yes. Do I care? No. 
> 
> Happy Sunday! 
> 
> Set some time after "Anon", so 8/9 years post- _Oils on Canvas_.

“Benedict,” Colin says, his expression oddly determined under all the drunkenness. “I have a question.” 

Benedict sprawls deeper into the green-and-gold embroidered armchair in the reception room of his bachelor apartment, dangling a half-drunk glass of whisky from his hand. “A question about _what_?” he asks, smirking as Anthony stumbles a little on his way back from the drinks cabinet. 

Colin leans forward, elbows on his knees, and takes a firm sip of his brandy. “Granville,” he says, his voice only a little slurred. “ _You_ and Granville.” 

Anthony snorts and falls into the armchair next to Benedict. “Have you only just figured it out, Colin?” he mocks. “ _That_ took a while.” 

Benedict bumps Anthony’s elbow. “Penelope probably finally let him in on the secret,” he stage-whispers.

Anthony grins. “She’s very much the brains of the relationship,” he answers in the same mock undertone. 

“You and Granville,” Colin repeats, his face contorted like he’s having to squint to focus. Given the amount of Benedict’s drinks cabinet they’ve managed to get through, that’s probably not that far off the mark. “You’re – _lovers_. You love each other. You’re lovers.” 

“Well observed,” Benedict says, and Anthony snorts again. 

“So,” Colin says, gesturing with his brandy glass, “you… spend time together. In bed, I presume. In _that_ bed,” he realises, grimacing at the closed door to Benedict’s bedroom. “And, presumably, Granville’s bed, too. One of them. Either at the house, or that studio of his. But as you are both _men_ , and therefore you are lacking certain… feminine parts, I presume that you engage in… _other_ acts – and I just cannot help but wonder how exactly, I mean, what it is that is…” He trails off, seemingly coming to the end of his drunken ability to speak. 

Benedict squints at him. “Is this about the buggery?” he asks, surprised. 

Colin goes bright red and finishes off his brandy.

“I think that’s a yes,” Anthony drawls, drinking another mouthful of whatever foul concoction of whisky, brandy, vodka, and absinthe he seems to have poured into his glass. 

“I just do not _understand_ it!” Colin exclaims. “I mean, I can imagine the pleasure that might come from… being the one doing the buggering, so to speak, but what possible delight could there be from being the one who is… _buggered?_ ” 

Anthony peers at Colin. “How much time have you spent thinking about our brother’s nocturnal activities, Colin?” 

“Too much,” Colin mutters into his empty brandy glass, then goes to top himself up. When he turns around, glass now full, that sharp, drunken resolution is back in his eyes. “So,” he says, pointing at Benedict and drinking another mouthful of brandy. “The buggery.” 

“Yes, the buggery,” Benedict echoes, grinning. 

Colin gestures broadly. “Do you… do the – _buggering?_ Or are you, instead, the one who is—”

“I’m going to drink every time he says ‘bugger’,” Anthony confides to Benedict. 

“—buggered?” 

Anthony drinks. 

“Both,” Benedict answers, sipping his whisky. “Depending on circumstance, mood, and preparation.” 

Colin frowns. “Preparation?” 

“Cleanliness,” Benedict says with a smirk, and watches Colin’s ears flush even redder. “And then it is not simply a matter of _insertion_ , you know, it takes time, and patience. And a large amount of lubrication.” 

“Does it not _hurt?_ ” Colin asks, oddly plaintive.

Benedict smirks into his whisky. “Not the way Henry does it.”

Anthony punches his arm. “ _Ben!_ ” 

“Colin asked!” Benedict objects, punching his brother back. “And to answer your question, brother, no, it does not hurt. In fact…” He trails off, thinks, then brandishes his glass in Colin’s direction. “You know that spot on a woman?” 

Colin stares at him, frowning drunkenly. “What spot?” 

Anthony brays a laugh. “Poor Penelope,” he chuckles.

Colin blushes again. “Oh, _that_ spot.” 

Benedict smirks. “There is a spot like that,” he says, and watches as Colin’s eyebrows shoot up. “Inside.” He grins. “And you have no _idea_ how good it feels.”

Anthony stares at him sideways. “Really?” 

Benedict nods. “Really,” he says. “The first time, I thought I might pass _out_ from the pleasure.” 

“Well, _that_ hardly seems fair,” Colin blusters. “Pleasure that can only be achieved through the act of buggery?” True to his word, Anthony drinks. “ _Most_ unfair!” 

“Oh, it can be reached with fingers, too,” Benedict says brightly. “It doesn’t have to be a cock. Tricky to get by yourself, though.” He pauses, sips his whisky, and grins. “But I suppose you both have wives.” 

Anthony punches his arm again, and Colin blushes so red he practically blends in with the burgundy wallpaper at his back. 

Five weeks later, Colin drunkenly grabs Benedict’s arm, squeezes so hard it hurts, and hisses, “My _God_ , Benedict, I have never felt the _like!_ ” 

A month after that, Henry receives a magnum of Dom Pérignon from the Aubrey Hall cellars with a note attached in Anthony’s handwriting that says: _For all you have done for my brother’s happiness, and for the happiness of our family._

“Why is your brother sending me champagne?” Henry asks, frowning at the note. 

Benedict takes the note from his hand, reads it, and smirks. “I’m not sure you want to know.” 

Henry narrows his eyes. “What did you do, Benedict?” 

“Nothing!” Benedict protests, then grins into his coffee. “Just gave my brothers a little anatomy lesson, that’s all. And I believe they might be reaping the benefits.”


	20. On First Viewing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How the Bridgertons discover Benedict’s relationship with Henry. [T]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First things first: **Idk_hi_iguess** wrote a gorgeous little fic set in the _Oils on Canvas_ verse, "[it takes courage to live as we do](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29756271)", which I really recommend. It fits so well with this world I've created, and honestly there's a couple of little titbits in it that I'm 100% stealing! 
> 
> Secondly: well, I may have, ah, after reading "it takes courage to live as we do" maybe, um, had an idea for another plotty long-fic in this verse, and, well, might have started plotting it out... I haven't actually started writing yet so I can't fully confirm that it's happening, but there is a very strong possibility that I'm not done with these boys.

_Anthony, October 1813_

“Oh, for God’s _sake_ ,” Anthony mutters, storming out into the pouring rain. “Not _again_.” 

_Eloise, November 1813_

“He,” Benedict says, his voice hoarse and fever-wrought. “Whoever _he_ is.” 

There’s fear in Benedict’s eyes, and Eloise realises with an unpleasant jolt that it’s _her_ he’s afraid of. Or not _her_ , exactly, no, Benedict isn’t afraid that she’s going to _attack_ him or _hurt_ him, that would be ridiculous even in his current sweaty, stinking, fever-weak state – he’s afraid of what she’s going to say. 

For a long moment, Eloise can’t bring herself to speak. It’s not that she’s shocked, or ashamed, or that she’s judging him or, heaven forbid, _hating_ him, no, it’s just that she can’t quite believe it. Is he saying what she _thinks_ he’s saying? 

Oh, she thinks he just might be. 

Eloise realises that her hands are shaking, and even as Benedict’s expression is twisting with disappointment, with regret, with sadness, all she can think is, _I am not the only one_. 

_Violet, November 1813_

There are angry voices coming from Anthony’s study, two that Violet recognises and one that she doesn’t. She frowns – they weren’t expecting visitors today, were they? And even if they were, _that_ is no way to speak to a guest!

“ _Anthony Bridgerton_ ,” Violet mutters under her breath, exasperated, then reaches for the doorknob, ready to rescue whatever poor caller is being subjected to the unreasonable anger of her children.

“You love him, Granville?”

All the air leaves Violet’s body in a rush. She freezes, her heart surging into her mouth. 

“Wholly and utterly,” comes the answer, the voice fraught and torn, and Violet thinks, _Benedict_ , and then, warmth spreading through her heart, _Oh, Benedict!_

_Gregory, January 1814_

Gregory crosses his arms suspiciously and stares up at the man who has just slipped out of Benedict’s bedroom – and slipped _very quietly_ , too, like he doesn’t want anyone to know he’s there. “Who are you?” he demands. “And what are you doing in Benedict’s bedroom in the middle of the night?” He narrows his eyes, a thought occurring to him, and he abruptly wishes he hadn’t left his catapult on the bedside table. “Are you a _thief?_ ”

The strange man wavers, caught between surprise and amusement. “Ah, no, I’m not a thief,” he says, straightening the hem of his waistcoat. His clothes are all rumpled, like he’s been wrestling. Benedict wrestles with Gregory sometimes, oh, maybe _that’s_ what he’s been doing. 

“Have you been wrestling with Benedict?” Gregory asks, just to be sure. 

The man makes a strangled noise. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?” he asks. “It’s very late for you to be up, Master Bridgerton.” 

“I couldn’t sleep,” Gregory answers, a little grumpily. “Shouldn’t _you_ be asleep?” 

“Good point,” the man says, a smile twitching his lips. He holds out his hand, says, “I’m Henry. A friend of your brother’s.”

Gregory takes his hand, shakes it. “Nice to meet you, Henry,” he says, privately pleased that this Henry, whoever he is, didn’t just tell him that he’s an adult and therefore doesn’t have to go to bed when he’s told. That’s what most adults say when they find him wandering around the house in the middle of the night. “You’re not stealing from Benedict, are you?”

Henry turns out the empty pockets of his waistcoat, then his trousers. “I am not.” 

Gregory nods. “Good,” he says. “I will escort you out of the house, if you would like? So you do not get lost in the dark.” He pauses. “Or scared.” 

Henry smiles, warm and amused, and takes Gregory’s hand. “I would like that very much, Master Bridgerton,” he says, and follows Gregory down the hallway to the stairs. 

_Colin, April 1814_

Colin frowns at Benedict. “As in, you’re _fucking_ a man?” he asks, because he’s more than a little drunk and he wants to check he heard that right. 

Benedict winces, takes a long drink from his brandy. “I wouldn’t put it quite _that_ crudely,” he protests. “I’m in _love_ with him.” He pauses, his lips twisting. “We do also have sex.” 

Colin eyes him. “What about that redhead you met at Ascot two years ago?” 

“I never claimed to _love_ her!” Benedict protests. 

Colin shakes his head. “No, I just mean – I thought you slept with her?” 

“I did!”

“But now you’re sleeping with this Granville?” Colin asks, frowning. “Who’s a man? So does that mean that you never actually _wanted_ to sleep with the redhead?” 

Benedict’s cheeks are a rather dark shade of pink. “I find that I enjoy the company of both women _and_ men,” he says. “It just so happens that I have given my heart to a man.” 

“This artist,” Colin says, honestly still a little confused by the whole thing. He’s not sure the alcohol is helping. 

Benedict nods. “That’s right,” he says, oddly nervous. 

Colin considers the matter for a long moment, then shrugs and drinks his beer. He’s seen enough suffering on the battlefield, enough men dying with the names of their loved ones on their lips. If his brother wants to fuck a man, or a woman, or whoever else, and if that person is willing and wanting in return, well, Colin isn’t going to judge. 

He raises his glass, touches it to Benedict’s. “To you and your painter, brother,” he says, and watches as relief floods Benedict’s expression. “Just keep the grisly details to yourself.” 

_Daphne, March 1815_

With a sigh, Daphne tucks the somewhat battered toy sheep into the folds of her shawl and knocks at the door of Benedict’s bachelor apartment. Simon has already assured her that he won’t be here, that there’s some event happening at the club today that Benedict never misses, but she’s not about to just barge in on her brother’s privacy without _knocking_ first. God only knows what he gets up to here aside from letting her drunken husband sleep on his sofa.

There’s no answer to her knock, and so, confident her brother is absent as promised, Daphne lets herself in with the key that Simon stole the last time he visited. It’s quiet, the sun glancing through the open curtains and illuminating the mess that her brother is apparently happy to spend his days in. Two half-drunk cups of coffee and an open sketchbook, a discarded shirt with a smear of charcoal dust across one sleeve and a maroon jacket that she doesn’t recognise as one of Benedict’s, crumpled on the floor like it’s just been dropped there.

Daphne sighs, shakes her head, and retrieves Mrs Baa-Baa from her shawl. In the bookshelves, perhaps? Or the bathroom? Although Simon was _remarkably_ annoyed when he found the toy in his wardrobe… 

She pads towards Benedict’s bedroom, smiling at her husband’s strange little war with her brothers, and opens the door. 

“ _Daph!_ ” 

Daphne squeaks, slams the door shut on her very naked brother and the also very naked painter who took the preliminary sketches for a portrait of her darling Alexander _only yesterday_ , and flees. 

She only remembers to be shocked by the sex of Benedict’s lover once she’s got the sight of her brother’s bare arse out of her head. 

_Francesca, August 1816_

“Benedict,” Francesca says with a sigh, and tosses a letter written in green ink into her brother’s lap. “You should really find a better hiding place for Granville’s love letters. Your sketchbooks are falling apart at the seams – I picked one up in the library and _this_ just fell out!”

Benedict blanches, scrambles to hide the letter. “Fran, I don’t know what you read, but—”

“A flowery description of the beauty of your eyes that, frankly, made me vomit a little,” Francesca interrupts. “I think he should probably stick to painting, don’t you? He’s not much of a poet.” 

A slow smile spreads across Benedict’s lips. “I have said as much in the past,” he says, his shoulders loosening, his hands unclenching. “He thinks I am exaggerating.” 

“I’ll have words with him the next time he is here for dinner,” Francesca says, then smacks her brother in the chest. “Why didn’t you _tell me?_ ” 

_Hyacinth, January 1818_

“Hyacinth, I’ve got something to tell you,” Benedict says, the creases around his eyes deepening in what looks oddly like concern. He pauses, huffs out a breath, then props his hands on his hips and mutters something that sounds like _this couldn’t be as easy as it was with Daph, could it?_

Hyacinth cocks an eyebrow. “Benedict?” 

Benedict visibly calms himself. “Yes,” he says, nods. “Sorry. Ah, so, Hyacinth, it’s about…” He trails off, grimaces. 

Hyacinth fights the urge to roll her eyes. “About _what_ , Benedict?” 

“Granville,” Benedict says, the name coming out in a rush. “It’s about Henry Granville. I’m sorry it’s taken me this long, it’s just _hard_ – and, well, dangerous, and I didn’t want to put you in the position of having to hide and lie and dissemble, God no, it’s bad enough that _I_ have to do that—”

“Benedict,” Hyacinth interrupts. 

Benedict grimaces. “Sorry, I’m rambling.” 

“It’s about Henry,” Hyacinth says. 

“Yes, Henry Granville,” Benedict agrees.

“Uncle Henry,” Hyacinth says. 

“Ah, yes—”

“Who you love,” Hyacinth says, holding back a smirk.

Benedict looks startled. “I’m sorry, what—”

“You love him,” Hyacinth says, deeply enjoying the way that her brother is just sort of blinking at her. “As in, you are _in_ love with him.” 

“Ah,” Benedict says. “Ah, yes, but Hyacinth, how—”

“Do I know?” Hyacinth interrupts. 

“Well, _yes_.” 

Hyacinth sets her book to one side and folds her hands in her lap, the very picture of formal politeness. “Well,” she says decisively, “to begin with, Benedict, he dines at the house more than anyone who is not married into the family. And whenever he does, the two of you are practically joined at the _hip_ – honestly, you are less subtle than _Colin!_ ” 

Benedict scoffs. “I am _not!_ ” 

“You are!” Hyacinth exists. “You gaze at him like some mythical lover out of a painting, like he has hung the moon and the stars in the night sky just for you.” 

Benedict frowns at her. “Have you been reading those romantic novels that Mother doesn’t like you reading again?” 

“Shut up,” Hyacinth says, smooth as a swan. 

Benedict’s lips are twitching in a faint smile. “How long have you known?” he asks, sounding vaguely impressed. 

“I’m not sure I’ve ever _not_ known,” Hyacinth says, thinking about it with a frown. “It was always very obvious.” She pauses, qualifies: “Very obvious to _me_ , at least. Don’t worry, brother, you’re not flaunting your illegal relationship to the entire _ton_. But there’s the way you look at him, and the way _he_ looks at _you_ , and the fact that when you lived here Gregory met him coming out of your room in the middle of the night more than once, and how Mother treats him almost the same as she treats Simon, and how Colin makes little comments under his breath that he thinks are very subtle but really _aren’t_ , and then the way that Penelope smiles—”

“Alright!” Benedict interrupts, throwing up his hands and grinning broadly. “I get the picture, Hy. _None_ of us are particularly subtle.” 

“ _I’m_ subtle,” Hyacinth points out, smug. “You had no _idea_ that I knew all along.” She preens. “That’s because you’re an idiot.” 

Benedict cocks an eyebrow. “I’m an idiot, am I?”

“Very much so,” Hyacinth answers primly. 

“In which case, I might just have to do something idiotic,” Benedict says, smirking, and before Hyacinth quite knows what’s happening, he’s scooping her up and flung her over his shoulder. She shrieks, smacks at his back, but he’s bigger and stronger than she is, and seems quite determined to—

“Anthony!” Benedict calls. “Open the door!”

“ _No!_ ” Hyacinth shrieks, trying not to laugh. “ _Anthony!_ ”

The door to the garden opens in a waft of cold winter air. Hyacinth catches a glimpse of her oldest brother’s despairing grin, a flash of one of the footmen’s bemused expression, and then Benedict dumps her unceremoniously in the middle of a snowbank – and, for good measure, plunges in alongside her, laughing uproariously. 

Hyacinth flings a double handful of snow in his face, laughs as he splutters and paws it out of his mouth, then puts everything she knows about propriety and ladylike behaviour to one side and dives at him. 

In the doorway, Anthony rolls his eyes. “Don’t come crying to me when you both catch your death!” he calls, suppressing a smile, and turns to go. 

Barely a moment later, two perfectly formed snowballs smack him in the back of the head, followed by the pealing laughter of his siblings.


	21. Hymeneal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Benedict and Henry discuss marriage. [E]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set after all the other _Unfinished Sketches_ , so ending roughly nine or so years after the events of _Oils on Canvas_.

“Oh, you missed a good laugh at the Athering ball last week,” Henry says, his voice still thick with sleep, the morning sunlight that filters in through the curtains painting his skin in stripes of gold. “It was the lady’s third daughter’s wedding—or maybe the fourth, come to think of it?—and you could _tell_.” He snorts with laughter, his bare stomach tensing under Benedict’s absently wandering fingers. “The flowers were half dead, the food was substandard at best, and the way the bride looked at her groom, _oh!_ ” He laughs. “I’m surprised he didn’t burst into flames the moment she laid eyes on him! The _venom_.”

Benedict smiles lazily and scratches his fingertips through the sparse hair on Henry’s chest, his head pillowed on his lover’s shoulder. “Not a love match, then?” 

“I do not think so,” Henry says, warm with affection, and kisses Benedict’s forehead. “And if it is, then it is a kind of love I have never seen before and do not want to see again.” He affects a shudder. “I think that particular happy couple have a long and torturous marriage ahead of them. Ah, the joys of the wedding vows.” 

All of a sudden, Benedict’s heart twists in his chest. He spreads his palm flat over Henry’s heart, looks up at the face of the man he feels like he loves more and more every day. “I would take them with you, you know,” he says, the words spilling from his lips unbidden.

Henry frowns. “What do you mean?” 

Benedict’s mouth is oddly dry. “The wedding vows,” he says, quieter. “If we could, I would take them with you.” 

A strange expression flashes across Henry’s face. He cups Benedict’s cheek, his smile warm, a little sly. “Are you proposing to me, Mr Bridgerton?” he asks, eyebrow cocked. 

Benedict’s heart is beating oddly hard. “Are you accepting, Mr Granville?” he asks in return. 

Henry laughs softly, leans in, catches his lips in a kiss, slow and searching. Benedict loses himself for a moment, happy to just kiss and be kissed in return, and when Henry pulls back, his lips are red and spit-slick. Henry studies him for a moment, that same strange look in his eyes, and says, “I fear that I took all that from you, sometimes.” 

“Took what?” Benedict asks, frowning. 

“Marriage,” Henry answers, an inescapable sadness in the curve of his lips. “Children. The kind of life that you see your siblings enjoy every day.” He flashes a smile he clearly doesn’t feel. “You do not have that,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “All you have is a foolish old man and a secret that you must keep to the end of your days.”

Benedict kisses Henry as hard as he can, hard enough to wipe those thoughts from his mind. “I have _you_ , Henry,” he whispers between his lips. “That is all I need.” 

Doubt hovers in Henry’s expression. “I see how you are with your nieces and nephews,” he says, his thumb stroking Benedict’s cheekbone in slow passes. “You are never happier than when you have Alexander under one arm and Edmund under the other.”

“Yes, and then when they grow tired and fractious I can hand them back to Daphne and Anthony,” Benedict counters pointedly, kisses Henry again. He pauses, after, sees the disbelief still in Henry’s eyes. “Perhaps in another life I would have had a dozen children,” he allows. “I would have had a beautiful wife and a comfortable, normal life. I would have been the envy of the _ton_ , and I would have been happy with that.” Henry’s gaze darts away. Benedict kisses him until he looks back. “But in this life, my love, I have _you_ ,” he murmurs. “I would not change that for anything.” 

Tears shine in Henry’s eyes, unshed. “I do not know what I did to deserve you,” he whispers. 

Benedict smirks. “I simply wished for a drawing master with talented hands and a majestic cock,” he says, and grins as Henry snorts an involuntary laugh. “You played no part in it.” 

Henry laughs again, kisses him. “Of course not,” he says. “My mistake, Mr Bridgerton.” 

Benedict hesitates, smiles softly. “You have not given me an answer, Mr Granville.” 

“To your proposal?” Henry asks, his voice quietly serious. 

Benedict nods. “Marry me,” he says, and it is only as the words pass his lips that he realises, oh, he _wants_ this. He does not think he has ever wanted anything more. “Even if we can never speak the words in front of anyone but each other,” he says, his voice hoarse. “Even if it goes against every law of God and man. Even if it means nothing, even if it is only words and empty air, even if nobody would recognise it but us. Marry me, Henry. Be my husband.”

Henry kisses him, long and deep and loving. “I would marry you in this and every lifetime, Benedict,” he says, smiling fit to put the sun to shame. “I am yours, for the rest of our days.” 

Benedict feels like his heart might crack in two with joy. He shifts, sits upright, tugs at a bemused Henry until they’re how he wants them, Henry laid out on his back across the rumpled bedsheets, Benedict sitting astride his thighs. They’re both naked which is perhaps a little inappropriate, but Benedict can’t bring himself to care. He takes Henry’s hand, entwines their fingers, says with mock pomposity, “Do you, Sir Henry Granville, take me, Benedict Bridgerton, as your not-at-all-lawfully wedded husband?” 

Henry sits up, kisses him. “I certainly do, Mr Bridgerton,” he says with the same faux-grandeur in his voice. “And do you, Benedict, take me, Henry, this foolish, filthy old man, as your husband? To have and to hold? To fuck and be fucked by and to spend stolen mornings like this in bed with?” 

Benedict laughs, kisses him. “Somewhat untraditional vows,” he says, “but yes, Mr Granville, I do.” 

“Good,” Henry says with a smirk, then abruptly rolls them over and pins Benedict to the bed. “Because I would rather like my wedding night now, if that’s alright with you.” 

“You _are_ a filthy old man,” Benedict laughs. “Is that all you want me for, Henry? My nubile young body?” 

“Certain parts of your body, yes,” Henry whispers in his ear, then bites a bruise into the arch of his neck. “I’ll let you imagine which ones, my _husband_.” 

A shudder of joy and need and _love_ trembles down Benedict’s spine. He groans, tears springing to his eyes, and reaches between them, wraps his fingers around both their leaking cocks and strokes them together, slow and easy and slick. They kiss, languid and unhurried, swallowing each other’s soft groans, Henry’s hands on either side of Benedict’s head, his kisses wanting, needing, hot and deep and oh _God_ there is nowhere Benedict would rather be than here, in this bed, in the golden-striped morning sunlight with his lover falling apart under his touch, with his _husband_ —

Benedict gasps, his hand stuttering to a halt, and comes, his keening cry a sharp counterpoint to Henry’s breathy moan. Henry reaches down, wraps his hand around Benedict’s, uses his seed-streaked fingers to stroke himself three, four more times, and then follows him over the edge, his eyes closed, his mouth open, soundless in his ecstasy, and collapses down on top of Benedict’s lax body. 

They lie together for a long moment, entangled in the sheets, breathing heavily and buried in each other. 

Benedict sighs, nuzzles Henry’s throat. “I love you,” he murmurs, fucked-out and staggeringly happy. “My love, my husband, my _God_ I love you.” 

Henry rolls off him, collapses into the mattress with a sigh. “As I love you,” he answers, kissing Benedict softly, lazily grabbing a handful of the sheets and wiping them both clean. He curls into Benedict’s side, his hand spread wide across his belly, kisses his shoulder, then laughs. “Somewhat different to my _first_ wedding night, that’s for sure.” 

Benedict grins, lazy and spent. “You do realise,” he says, taking Henry’s hand, pressing a kiss to the gold ring on his fourth finger, his _wedding_ ring, “that this makes you a bigamist as well as a sodomite?” 

Henry winces, thumbs the ring. “Excellent point,” he says. “Is it too early to ask for a divorce?” 

Benedict shoves him. 

Henry laughs, turns Benedict’s face towards him and kisses him, long and slow. “And you do realise,” he asks, grinning, “that this means that you are cuckolding Lucy? I’m not sure she’ll like that.” His eyes sparkle. “She is very possessive of me,” he says. “Controlling, you might say.” 

“Oh, that _is_ concerning,” Benedict says, nodding in agreement. “Lucy is far more intimidating than you, Henry. Maybe you were right about that divorce.”

Henry snorts, kisses him again, hooks his leg over Benedict’s. “Never,” he whispers, running his hand through Benedict’s hair. “We made a promise to each other in the eyes of _God_ , Benedict. You cannot simply back out of that because you did not think about the potential consequences of angering my wife.” 

Benedict grins. “I would fight her for you every day,” he murmurs, kisses Henry teasingly. “Although I do imagine she would most likely win.” 

“I would appreciate the effort, nonetheless,” Henry whispers, pulls him closer, kisses him with laughter and tenderness and love. “I know this is not real,” he murmurs, closing his eyes, forehead pressed to Benedict’s. “I know it is not something that we can take outside this room, I know it is just a dream. But oh, Benedict, it is a _good_ dream.” 

Benedict tilts forward, kisses him softly. “The world is what we make of it, Henry,” he answers, soft, pausing, full of heartache and heartbreak and love. “ _Reality_ is what we make of it. If I want to call you my husband, who is going to stop me?” 

Henry’s lips twist wryly. “Aside from the law,” he points out. “And the constables, the magistrates, the peelers, the rest of the _ton_ , the—”

Benedict shoves him onto his back, rolls on top of him. “I am _trying_ to make a romantic speech,” he says sternly as Henry cackles with laughter. “Stop ruining it.” 

“Make better romantic speeches, then,” Henry says, pulls him down, and kisses him. “More accurate ones, at least.” 

“You are _insufferable_ ,” Benedict groans. 

“I am your husband now,” Henry says, and smiles brighter than the summer sky. “That means you have no choice but to suffer me.” 

“And I suffer you gladly,” Benedict says, smiles fit to burst, and kisses him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are again, at the end of another adventure!
> 
> To everyone who's been reading, thank you for coming with me. Thank you for all the lovely comments on my strange, sometimes smutty, often ridiculous ramblings, and I'm just very, very glad that there's a bunch of people who feel just as strongly about Benedict and Henry as I do. And thank you for all the love for the characters I've hugely elaborated (like Lucy) and just flat out invented (like Alasdair and Adele) - it means a lot.
> 
> Now, yesterday I said that I was thinking about writing another long-fic in this verse. Today, I can confirm that, all being well, I _will_ be writing another long-fic in this verse, set after the _Unfinished Sketches_ , tentatively titled _Overlapping Brushstrokes_. There will be smut, there will be angst, there will be intrigue, there will be more smut. I've started writing it buttttt as I like to keep a few chapters ahead, I won't be posting it until I'm a couple of chapters in - I anticipate I'll most likely start posting early next week. 
> 
> Thank you all again, and I'll see you soon!


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